


a tale of flowers and flames

by JourEtNuit



Category: RWBY
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, a hint of enemies to lovers, some pining some angst and a dash of fealty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:54:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27430828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JourEtNuit/pseuds/JourEtNuit
Summary: A few months ago, Princess Blake Belladonna ran away to join the White Fang, a group of bandits masquerading as rebels. When her worried parents ask renowned knight-errant Yang to find and discreetly retrieve the missing heir of the Kingdom of Menagerie, she accepts the quest with ease. But bringing a recalcitrant Blake home is harder than expected - especially when she has publicly challenged the leader of the White Fang…The two of them embark on a journey across Remnant, and grow to care for one another in a way they never expected.
Relationships: Blake Belladonna/Yang Xiao Long
Comments: 21
Kudos: 152
Collections: Bumbleby Big Bang 2020





	a tale of flowers and flames

**Author's Note:**

> My fic for the Bumbleby Big Bang 2020! Please check out [this gorgeous art](https://salsie.tumblr.com/post/634768587100487680/heres-my-piece-for-the-bumbleby-big-bang-that-i) by the wonderful [Salsie](https://salsie.tumblr.com) !

1-

The first time Yang lays eyes on Blake Belladonna, Princess of the Kingdom of Menagerie and heir to the throne, the girl is begrimed with mud and dirt, wielding a shortsword expertly, and yelling profanities the likes of which would make even the most hardened of ruffians blush like a virgin.

It is quite a sight, and not at all what Yang expected when she was charged by King Ghira and Queen Kali to find their missing daughter and bring her back discreetly to the palace. 

She remembers her meeting with the royal couple vividly: the luxuriant gardens of the palace, with their fabled flowers, bursting with life and colors, the sounds of birds and insects, and most striking of all, the quietness, after Kuo Kuana’s bustling streets. Guards in the livery of the Belladonna House - purple tabard over their leather armor, shiny helmets, black crest on their chest - stand still and silent like trees around the gardens, close enough that they’ll be at Yang’s throat instantly if she poses any threat, but far enough to prevent them from hearing the private conversation she’s to have with their sovereigns.

Yang bows deep. Her bad shoulder aches as she bends, but she doesn’t rise up until told to do so by the queen.

“Please join us,” Kali Belladonna says, with a welcoming smile, gesturing to an empty seat at the intricate wooden table in the center of the gardens. 

The king pours steaming mint tea in three small copper bowls, carved with flower motifs, offering one to his wife first, then to Yang, and cupping the last one in his large hands. Yang sits and nods her thanks, vaguely shocked by the lack of decorum. She’s been in various courts across Remnant, and she’s used to servants tending to that sort of tasks. She tries to imagine Lord Schnee serving her a cup of tea, and has to stifle a snort at the image. 

“Thank you for coming to us so fast. I trust your trip was uneventful?” Ghira asks her, amber eyes studying her levelly.

“It was.” As she takes a welcomed sip of tea, Yang spares a thought for her mount, who is hopefully getting her fill of oats and apples in the palace stables as they speak. Amber is a good horse, a little stubborn, but sturdy enough to carry Yang in full armor when necessary, and swift despite her stature. The two of them made great pace, from Beacon Castle to the court of Menagerie, but it has been a long trip, if not unpleasant. Yang shifts in her chair, uncomfortable in her sweaty, dirt-streaked traveling clothes. “Your Majesties, your missive said the matter was urgent…”

The queen sighs, and sets her bowl back onto the table. She looks tired, up close, with dark circles under the eyes, and lines of worry creasing the smooth skin of her forehead. “We called for you because your reputation tells of your great deeds, but most importantly, of your good heart. Bards have been singing your tales, naming you the best knight-errant the world has known for decades, the Flame of Remnant, strong of arm and pure of heart…”

“Your Grace is too kind,” Yang says, with a small smile, “but you should not believe everything bards say. They tend to be a dramatic lot.”

Ghira lets out a bark of laughter. “I’m glad I’m not the only one who thinks so.”

Kali allows herself a grin, before her face turns somber again. “I wish we could have met you under better circumstances. Alas, we need your help with a… delicate situation.”

There’s a pause. Yang drinks her tea, waiting. As far as royalty goes, she likes these two, but she wishes they’d hurry up a little with the exposition. Perhaps sensing her weariness, the king crosses his arms against his barrel of a chest - he’s got the body of a fighter, Yang cannot help but think to herself. 

“Are you familiar with the White Fang?”

Yang frowns. “Yes, though I’ve never had dealings with them. I know they’ve been causing trouble between your people and the Kingdom of Atlas, and lately in Mistral, but I’m sorry Your Majesty, if you asked me here because you would like me to interfere, I don’t…”

“They have our daughter.” Kali doesn’t raise her voice, but the conflicted emotions are unmistakable: anger and guilt and fear. “Blake is with them.”

Oh. Now, it makes sense. “They’re holding the princess captive?” Yang asks, some shock creeping into her voice. The White Fang is a band of outlaws, rumored to steal from the rich to give to the poor, though Yang has heard many conflicting tales about them. “Why not send troops to free her, if that is so?”

Ghira winces. “It’s not that simple. At first we thought they’d taken her captive, but it seems that Blake —,” he pauses, clears his throat, “— that Blake left to join the White Fang voluntarily.”

Yang opens her mouth, but no sound comes out. To say she is surprised would be to call her greatsword a kitchen knife. She turns to Kali, vaguely wondering if she is being mocked. “Your Majesty?”

“My husband spoke truly, I’m afraid. Don’t be mistaken, we love our daughter, and believe she has her reasons. Blake has a strong heart, and stronger principles, and she’s always strived to do good. But we fear the White Fang may have ill intentions, and then, there is the risk of a diplomatic incident if she is discovered. Atlas would not take kindly to the Menagerie heir colluding with a band of outlaws.”

“Which explains why you would send only one person to find her,” Yang says, frowning as she thinks it through, “to avoid bringing unwanted attention to the situation. I see, now, why you called for me.”

Ghira nods, hesitates, then adds, “You have no allegiance to the Kingdom of Menagerie, so we understand if you cannot accept…”

Yang waves their concern with a gesture of the hand. “I serve Remnant above all, its land and its people. I will bring your daughter back to you.”

***

It takes Yang weeks to find her. Weeks roaming the countryside of the Mistrali Kingdom, from small town to village to lone farm lost in the hills, looking for leads on the White Fang and the location of their camp. She doesn’t mind - she has no ties, no responsibilities, no purpose, except the quests she takes on, and her thirst for adventure. Such is the life of a knight-errant.

Sometimes her reputation precedes her ; villagers see the red cloak, the golden braids, the coat of arms on her shield and her tabard, and they welcome her with cries and laughter and awe, pressing too close to her horse for comfort, trying to touch her arm, her leg, her foot, pressing cups of ale in her hands and offering her sweet cakes, crowning her with circlets of flowers and ivy and giving her the honor seat at the communal table. Once or twice, a maiden of Yang’s age tries to give her a kiss, or to sit in her lap, and she has to gently, but firmly, deny their advances, though she admires their straightforward approach, and the sight of pretty faces does not leave her as unaffected as she would like.

Sometimes, however, she’s greeted with narrowed eyes and angry mouths, glares and silence, even stones. She doesn’t stop in those villages, her eyes taking in the miserable crops, the famished livestock, the children with hollow cheeks, as she passes by. Mistral was hit the hardest by the recent drought, with so much of the kingdom devoted to grains and animals. In those places, more often than not, she finds the White Fang symbol hastily painted on wooden planks in the town square, on the walls of dilapidated barns. Famine is fertile ground for outlaws. 

After almost four months, people have finally noticed Blake’s absence from court, and even in Mistral, speculations abound. In her weeks of travel, Yang hears countless rumors about the Princess of Menagerie’s whereabouts: that she ran away to Atlas and betrayed her family, that she took a peasant lover, that she was taken captive by the Happy Huntresses who are asking a ransom of three thousand gold coins for her safe return, that she was under the charm of a powerful dark mage who held her prisoner in a tower in the middle of the Vacuo sands.

(The last one Yang heard from a toothless old woman who smelled strongly of prune liquor, so she’s inclined not to give it too much weight.)

But she keeps her eyes and ears open, listening quietly to tavern talk, to market gossip, and slowly, surely, she follows the trail to a very small village, a hamlet really, a scattering of square, hardy houses sprouting on the edge of Mistral’s largest forest like overgrown mushrooms. 

Yang approaches on foot, light and quiet despite the weight of her chainmail, helmet fastened and visor down. She’s left her heavy shield, rolled in her cape, attached to Amber’s flank, and her sword sits in its sheath at her back, but she holds in one leather-gloved hand a small dagger of sharp steel - if any White Fang lookouts surprise her, she will make sure they don’t alert the rest of them. 

But no one is standing guard, and what should have been the defense perimeter of the village is deserted. Curiosity and trepidation battle inside Yang’s heart, as she gets closer to the cluster of houses. Voices reach her ears - the jeers and cries of an excited crowd. Something is going on, something out of the ordinary. Yang creeps silently around the whitewashed walls of a barn, crouches behind a row of empty barrels, and peers at the scene in front of her. In the tiny village square, two dozens or so people form a loose circle, their expressions ranging from shocked and nervous to absolutely furious. Everyone’s attention is on the two figures staring each other down in the middle of the circle. The tallest one is a man, red-haired, wearing a black leather jerkin and a snarl. Terrible scars mark one side of his face, and whatever caused them left him blind in one eye. Yang, who learned how to quickly evaluate any potential opponent when she was but a novice squire, notices the imposing longsword the man bears at his belt, his balanced stance, his closed fists. This is a trained fighter, she knows instinctively, a dangerous man made even more dangerous by his obvious, uncontainable anger. 

And then she sees her. Blake Belladonna, the heir of Kuo Kuana’s crown. The princess who ran away, the object of her quest.

A girl of nineteen, clad in filthy, commoners clothes, brandishing a shortsword, currently spitting such foul words at the red-haired man that Yang blinks, wondering if her eyes are playing tricks on her. If she hadn’t religiously studied and memorized the portrait Queen Kali had shown her of her daughter, Yang never would have thought this girl noble, let alone royalty. 

“I’ve warned you,” Blake says to the man, hot with rage. “I told you I would not let you harm any more innocent people in the name of your false justice, yet you…”

“Enough!” His voice is cold and contemptuous, nothing like hers. “You are speaking like a child who has never known war. Shall I send for your old nursemaid?” Some amid the crowd snicker, and the girl’s brown skin darkens across her cheeks. “I’m tired of wasting my time trying to justify my decisions. If it’s a lesson you’re after, I will gladly teach it to you.”

He unsheathes his sword, lazily, confident, and walks toward her. Blake, to her credit, does not move. But Yang does.

Like an arrow let loose, she charges through the crowd, places herself in between Blake and him, and draws her sword as well. “Stand down.”

A brief, shocked silence, and then the man sneers. “Whoever you are, leave us be. This does not concern you.”

“I am a knight of Remnant. I won’t let you harm her.”

“I don’t need your help.” Yang turns around at the words, and finds Blake glaring at her with eyes ablaze with anger. “Move out of my way.”

And with that curt warning, the princess advances towards her opponent, sword slashing the air at her side, feet light on the packed dirt. Too incredulous to be wounded by the dismissal, Yang has no time to react: the fight has started, and in such close quarters, it will be hard to find an opportunity to interfere without putting Blake in danger. 

Or at least, not in any more danger, for the man is not holding back. His strokes are vicious and powerful, cutting at Blake’s sides, at her head, at her legs, and Blake does a hell of a job parrying some, evading most, elegant like a dancer and twice as deadly. She manages to hit him once, cutting deep into the back of his unprotected sword hand in a dazzling show of speed and precision, but they’ve only been fighting for a few minutes, and already Yang can see Blake’s arms trembling with the effort. She’s skilled, but he’s stronger, each of his blows hammering down on her smaller, leaner frame.

Yang exhales, slowly, through her nose, and makes a decision. She sheathes her sword, and carefully circles the two fighters, so that they’re positioned between her and the road leading to the village gate. As she does so, the redhead man grows suddenly impatient. With one terrifying swoop of his longsword, he disarms Blake, sending her blade flying into the crowd. She takes a step back, hands raised and curled into fists, not giving up. As impressed as Yang is by the princess’s sheer bravery, she also knows the display is foolish ; he’s going to win this bout. One violent strike of the sword cuts through cloth and grazes Blake’s stomach. Yang grabs the bone whistle hanging under her tabard. Blake winces, her guard falters. The man throws a punch at her, catching the side of her head with his knuckles, and laughs savagely as Blake staggers back, stunned.

Time to go. Yang blows into the whistle, hard as she can. Instantly the thud of hooves hitting earth resounds, distant then growing closer, and in a matter of seconds, Amber bursts through the crowd, sending three or four unfortunate souls to the ground, and separating the man from Blake. In the confusion, Yang hops onto the back of her horse in one swift, practiced move. Before anyone else has time to react, she bends down, grabs Blake by the waist, unceremoniously throws the princess across the saddle in front of her and, steering the horse with her knees, takes off toward the forest.

“Let me go!” Blake protests. She writhes like a fish out of water, intent on escaping, but Yang has one arm holding her down tight, the other on the reins, and she doesn’t bother responding. They make it to the edge of the forest ; she presses Amber on. They need to put some distance between them and the White Fang. Her right shoulder aches fiercely, but she ignores the pain, used to it.

After a while she notices the princess is no longer fighting - she’s slumped across the saddle, lifeless. Dread turns her blood to ice, until Yang finds her pulse, beating at her throat with reassuring steadiness. Still, she worries, and urges Amber on, until they are so deep in the woods the diminishing sunlight struggles to pierce the thick canopy. 

Only then does she feel safe enough to halt.

2- 

Blake wakes up with a headache, a sore neck, and a sense of vague confusion. When she opens her eyes, she sees green everywhere, a sea of vibrant, mottled emerald. It takes her an embarrassing few seconds to understand that she’s in a forest, surrounded by tall trees and thickets. Hazy ribbons of morning sunlight stream downward, dreamlike. Movement catches her eye, and she rises up on her elbows ever so slightly. 

A figure crouched right by her feet, facing away from her, is tending to a small campfire. Blond hair falls like waves of gold down her red cloak, and suddenly it all comes back to Blake’s foggy mind: her fight with Adam, and the knight who showed up out of nowhere and took her away on a warhorse. Anger courses through Blake’s body, warm and invigorating like the spiced rum they drink in Atlas on cold winter nights. Turning your back on a temporary defeated enemy is such an amateur mistake. The knight must think her a poor threat indeed, if she didn’t even bother keeping Blake in her line of sight. 

Blake has dealt with many arrogant fools who thought themselves the paragon of knighthood in her time at court, and there’s nothing she relishes more than the opportunity to teach them what it really means to be a fighter. She takes a silent breath, muscles tightening, and, hands flat against the mossy dirt, pushes herself off the ground and launches her body at the unsuspecting knight.

Or she would have, if something around her wrists hadn’t stopped her mid motion. The shock, and the way her arms are tugged painfully backward, forces a grunt out of her throat. The knight spins around at the sound, just as Blake’s eyes find the coils of rope around her wrists, following the length of it to the massive trunk of an oak tree. Furious, she scrambles backward to a sitting position, glaring at the knight who is now on her feet and facing her.

“You tied me to a tree?”

The knight smiles. She’s not wearing her great helm anymore, and her eyes are a striking purple, her cheeks dusted with freckles. She’s younger than Blake thought, a girl her age, not a seasoned soldier. Fleetingly, Blake remembers the sensation of a strong arm grabbing her around the waist, of a firm hand pressing her down on the saddle, and resolves not to underestimate the knight, however young she is.

“Of course, I did, I’m not an idiot. I saw you fight.”

“Free me this instant,” Blake demands, trying her best to sound authoritative despite her situation. She knows from experience that some people will do just about anything if you order them to in the right tone of voice.

The knight shakes her head. “I am sorry, Your Highness, but even if I thought you wouldn’t try to attack me again, I know you’d run away as soon as I untie you, and I have no desire to spend days searching through this vast forest for you.”

“Highness?” Blake says, raising an eyebrow.

“No need to play coy, I know who you are. Your parents tasked me to bring you home.”

Blake blinks, digesting the news. Could this be true? “How do I know you’re not lying? How do I know you’re not sent by Lord Schnee to capture me and bring me to Atlas to be tried and hanged as a member of the White Fang? Or worse?”

“You’ll have to trust my word.”

Blake spits on the ground, but instead of showing offense, the other girl chuckles. “So feisty, for a royal princess!” 

“Are you even a real knight?” Blake questions, trying a different angle, looking at the coat of arms on the girl’s muddy tabard with as much condescension as she can muster. “You don’t look the part.”

“I’m Yang, of House Xiao Long. My father is Lord Taiyang, and Patch is his estate. I was knighted by King Ozpin himself, in Beacon Castle, three years ago. Do you need me to recount all of my deeds as well, Princess? I’m afraid I’ve been rather busy.”

Blake frowns. She’s heard that name before. She checks out the tabard again, trying to make sense of the emblems. “The one they call the Flame of Remnant?” Well, at least, if the bards are to be trusted, Yang has good morals, something Blake should be able to exploit to her advantage. “Alright, then, my apologies, Sir Knight. I believe you. Now please, untie me, so that I may properly thank you for saving me.”

Yang chuckles again, amused. “Good try, Your Highness, but as I said, these are staying on. I know you’ve joined the White Fang of your own free will, and though I cannot fathom why, I won’t risk you running back to that tall red fellow who just about eviscerated you.”

At her words, Blake swallows. She’s tried not to focus on it, but now the fight comes back to her, and with it, the pain, Adam’s vicious grin, the fear. She knows she was in the right to challenge Adam, that day, since she’s failed to talk any sense into him. The White Fang could be doing so much good in the world, like he promised her almost half a year ago when they met, but instead there’s only violence and petty revenge and power, power, always that word in Adam’s mouth. Blake understands power more than he thinks - and she understands that she has been powerless to stop him thus far. Her hand presses against her stomach, instinctively, and underneath the torn material of her tunic, she feels something coarse and sticky. Bandages, coated in a thick salve. Blake gathers some of the substance with one finger, and brings it to her nose, suspicious, but she recognizes the bitter smell of willow bark, often used by healers to stop a wound from bleeding.

She looks up, and finds the knight still standing before her, hands resting on the pommel of her greatsword, the tip of which is sunk into the earth. “You did this?” Blake asks, pointing at the bandages. 

Yang’s eyes are serious when she responds. “It was only a graze, but I’ve no interest in seeing you suffer, Your Highness. The only thing I want is to bring you home safely to your family.”

Would it be so bad, to return to Kuo Kuana, escorted by this infuriating, but capable, knight? Blake swallows, wavering. She misses Menagerie, she misses her parents and her people, and the relative simplicity of her life as it used to be. No blood on her hands, no real responsibility but to attend a few royal councils and some carefully selected court events. She could go back to her life of endless tutors, to her father’s tedious lectures on history and the few boring administrative tasks assigned to her by her mother to keep her busy. She could forget it all…

No. Blake grits her teeth, feels the bitter taste of self-loathing at the back of her throat, coating her mouth like oil. No, she will not go home just yet. She left to do good, and she may have made a mistake trusting Adam, but that mistake is hers to correct, and she won’t run away from her duty. It is her burden to bear, and hers alone.

“I have to return to the White Fang. Please let me go,” she says. Her voice sounds strained and conflicted, even to her ears. 

Yang’s eyes soften, and in them Blake recognizes, to her horror, pity. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. I can’t, and you can’t.”

3 -

It occurs to Yang all at once, and with upsetting clarity: they are lost. 

They’ve been traipsing through the forest for the better part of the day, on foot, Amber trailing dejectedly behind. The vegetation is too thick to ride. After their conversation, Yang tied Blake’s hands in front of her, snug but not tight enough to hurt, and looped the end of the rope around Amber’s saddle. The princess isn’t happy about any of this, and Yang can’t blame her, but no amount of angry glaring and pouting will shake her resolve. She has cleaned her wound and given her water and salted meat and a couple of tiny, sweet apples, which is far more than what most people would do.

Yang isn’t in the habit of taking maidens prisoner, but she has no qualms keeping Blake tied up if it means she won’t run away to certain death out of pride or misguided loyalty, or whatever else drove the royal heir of Menagerie to throw her luck with outlaws. Her association with the White Fang was obviously not going well - they might have killed her out there. And so, despite Blake’s frown and her golden eyes staring daggers at her, Yang doesn’t feel any remorse. 

She does feel an increasing amount of frustration at their present situation. Sweat dampens her shirt as she forces a path through the brambles. Flies and insects buzz around her. The sun at midday cuts through the foliage like hot blades, and her hair sticks to her forehead.

Every tree looks the same after a couple of hours. She doesn’t want to mark their passage, reluctant to make it easier to follow them if people are indeed doing so. And they probably are: Yang saw the look on that White Fang leader’s face. This is not a man who deals gracefully with failure. 

For her part, the princess stays silent and sullen. Yang studies her, from the corner of her eye, making sure she’s not planning any daring escape or sudden attack. Under the grit and the dirt and the sweat, despite the angry line of her mouth and the angry glare, or maybe because of all of it, she’s strikingly beautiful. Long dark hair. Light brown skin and golden eyes. But more than any of this, it’s the spirit of the other girl she can’t help but admire, the confidence of her stride, the bravado in the jut of her chin.

Yang stumbles, and realizes she’s been staring. Admonishing herself, she strikes a bush with her sword, with more force than necessary. There’s a snort behind her, and since she can’t tell if it came from her prisoner or her horse, she opts to ignore it. 

It takes a few more hours of the same monotonous, infuriating trek, until Blake says something.

“You’re lost.”

Yang huffs. “I’m not lost. It’s just… harder to find a trail so deep in the forest, but I know where we are.”

“I very much doubt this, since we are walking in circles. We started out going east, now we’re heading west.” Blake’s matter-of-fact tone makes Yang turn around. The princess looks her dead in the eye. “We are lost.”

There’s no challenge in her gaze, no hint of taunting in her voice, only the simple statement of an indisputable truth. Briefly, Yang considers arguing the facts, standing her ground, pride rebelling against the admission of defeat, but she’s never been inclined to lie, and Blake seems too insightful to believe her anyway. So she sighs instead. “Yes, I’m afraid we are, Your Highness.”

Blake’s mouth opens a little, as if shocked by Yang’s honesty, and she blinks a few times in rapid succession, eyes darting to the trees surrounding them. Finally she looks back at Yang, moistening her lips before she speaks, a nervous tic Yang notices but does not understand. “I know these woods. I’ve crossed them once, and I’ve hunted through them a lot. I can get us to the other side. Let me help.”

Yang is tempted to refuse, but her chainmail hangs heavy on her tired body, her legs are sore, her hands and face covered in countless tiny scratches. The sun is still golden, in the late afternoon sky, but soon its light will be drowned under the canopy, and then it will be dark and cold, and they will still be lost, maybe no closer to the edge than they were this morning. It stands to reason that Blake would know the forest better than her, living in a White Fang camp at its border. What is the harm in letting her help? Woods can be dangerous ; better to work together to ensure they make it out safely.

Blake lifts her tied hands towards Yang, a question without words. And Yang, dazed and weary, answers by cutting off the rope with the sharp dagger hanging at her belt. “Lead the way, Princess.”

Gracefully, Blake stretches her arms above her head, languid like a cat waking up from a nap, rolling her neck. She rubs the light indents of the rope around her wrists - nothing worse than the faint redness of chaffed skin, but it still makes Yang’s stomach roil with sudden, vague, guilt. 

And then Blake bolts. So abruptly that Amber jumps to the side in fear, neighing a vehement protest, Blake darts into the woods, light on her feet, weaving between the trunks of trees, lithe and fast and dark, and in the dozen of seconds it takes Yang to react, she’s already far, disappearing in the thick underbrush. 

Letting out a most unchivalrous curse, Yang dashes after her. For a while it seems as if Blake will manage to lose her - she’s faster, and quieter, in her light tunic and deerskin breeches, than Yang with her chainmail and sword and tough leather boots. She leaps above fallen trees and thorny bushes, moving like a dancer or a wild deer, while Yang tramples behind her, feet hitting the soft forest floor heavily, leaving a trail of broken branches and crushed flowers. More than once, Yang loses sight of Blake, but she has good ears, and it’s hard to miss the sound of a person running in the quiet of the forest, even someone as stealthy as Blake. 

In the end, it’s a matter of endurance. Blake may be fast, all lean muscles and willful tenacity, but she still suffered wounds not even a day ago, on top of an entire day spent walking. Yang is slower, and heavier, but steadier also. She’s used to the weight of armor, to the exhaustion of extended physical effort - she’s been on battlefields, on interminable quests through the wilderness. Eventually, Blake tires out, falters, her pace dwindling despite her desperate efforts. Yang closes the distance, and, with one last burst of energy, accelerates, just enough that she can grab the back of Blake’s long tunic and halt, boots digging into the mulch. It sends the two of them to the ground, Blake snarling and twisting and kicking, trying in vain to escape Yang’s iron hold as she lands on her side. 

“Let me go! You don’t understand, I have to go!” Her voice is strained, breathless and frantic.

She pounds her fists against Yang’s arms, legs, torso, anywhere she can reach, and it hurts, a proper beating, even if born out of desperation. Another reminder that this princess knows how to fight. Yang’s body already aches from the day and the mad pursuit through the woods, and she’s not keen on any more injury, for either of them. So she puts an end to it, quickly ; she rolls Blake on her back, straddles her hips, pins her wrists to the mossy forest floor. 

“Stop this,” she says, looking down at Blake’s closed-off, angry face. She intends to be stern, commanding, but instead the words sound like a plea. The gold of Blake’s eyes is blinding.

“Why won’t you just let me go? What’s even in it for you?”

Yang shakes her head. “I was tasked by your family to bring you safely home, Your Highness. One does not simply ignore the will of monarchs.”

“They promised you gold, is that it? Land and riches?” Blake spits out, glowering. Her hair fans out around her head like a dark halo. “It’s greed that drives you, like half the knights at my father’s court - vultures, the lot of you, with no true concern for the people you are sworn to protect.”

At that, Yang inhales sharply, and gazes down at her captive. Silence stretches on for long minutes, while Yang thinks and her chest tightens with worry. She can feel the pulse of Blake’s blood where she’s holding her wrists down, fast like a bird’s heartbeat. “The king and queen of Menagerie did promise me a reward, one I intend to claim,” Yang says eventually. Blake’s mouth twists in disgust, but before she can speak, Yang presses on. “But this isn’t why I went on this journey to find you. I agreed to their request, because when I was made a knight I took an oath to do what’s right, and that includes helping parents reunite with their missing daughter, one they clearly love fiercely and miss dearly. I would do the same for any family looking for their lost child, whether they have coin to offer or not. But I… You need to tell me if…”

She pauses, uncertain how to speak her mind. Blake is looking up at her with an unreadable expression, but she’s no longer struggling against her, so Yang lets go of her wrists and sits up. A part of her is convinced Blake will start fighting again as soon as her hands are free, but the princess doesn’t move, arms stretched above her head, palms facing up. 

“Is there a hidden reason you are so reluctant to go back to your kingdom, Your Highness?”

“What do you mean?” Blake asks, flatly, though the glint in her eyes betrays her curiosity.

“I mean, do your parents not treat you well? They seemed good and kindhearted when I met them at the palace, but I know darkness can hide so deep one cannot pretend to really know another person’s heart, and I have no desire to deliver you to people who wish you harm.”

Blake’s eyes widen. “What? No!” she exclaims. Her voice resonates in the quiet forest around them. She winces. “No,” she repeats, in a softer tone, “my parents have been nothing but loving to me.” 

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Blake says, firmly. She’s looking at Yang with something like wonder, and an undercurrent of shame that twists Yang’s belly. “I did not leave because of my parents, and believe me, I miss them too.”

“Then why not come with me of your own free will?”

Blake swallows, and averts her gaze. “I have unfinished business here.”

“With whom? The White Fang? That man who wounded you? He would have killed you!”

Silence.

“If you tell me, I could help you,” Yang offers, softly. But Blake doesn’t answer, and Yang instinctively understands she won’t get anything else from the princess tonight.

She sighs, straightening her back. As she does, she becomes abruptly aware of the position they’re in, of the solid warmth of Blake’s hips underneath her thighs. Her ears burn. She stands up, and offers a hand to Blake, who refuses the help as she rises to her feet as well. The sunlight has dimmed now, shadows surrounding them on all sides, the forest creaking with the myriad of sounds announcing the evening.

“We should go find the horse, and make camp for the night,” Yang says. She takes out a length of rope from her belt, and pauses, hopeful. “Swear that you won’t run, and I’ll leave you free of movement. I need only your oath, Princess.”

Blake’s jaw tenses, the picture of obstinacy, and wordlessly she presents her hands for Yang to tie up.

4 -

Blake’s resolve only lasts another day. Her resentment of the situation doesn’t lessen, per se, nor her determination to make things right and remove Adam from the White Fang, but the journey takes its toll on her, and her resolution to endure captivity in dignified silence crumbles. As she sits on a damp moss-covered log, feet sore from walking, face grimy with dirt, skin sticky from sweat and tree sap, she decides that, maybe, accepting her temporary fate would not be so bad after all. Maybe a wounded ego is a fair price to pay for a little more comfort, and a little more freedom. She won’t be defeating Adam by using all her energy to spite Yang - she may be stubborn, but she is no fool. And if she is to survive these woods, she has a better chance of doing so with another person. 

“I need to wash myself,” she declares, staring at the knight, who is sitting a few feet away from her, sharpening her sword.

“The stream is right there, Princess.”

Blake glares at her with all her might but after two full days spent in each other’s company, her infuriating captor must be used to it, because it doesn’t have the intended effect. She gestures with her tied hands in front of her, grumpily. “I need my hands,” she enunciates slowly, like talking to a child.

Yang doesn’t even look up from her whetting stone, greatsword flat on her knees. “Nice try.”

Gritting her teeth, Blake ignores the prideful voice still protesting inside her mind. “I won’t try to run. I will follow you willingly. I give you my word.”

At that, Yang looks at her. Her purple eyes flash in the remainder of sunlight. “You’ll have to swear it.”

“I swear on the crown…”

Yang tuts, interrupting her. “On something that actually matters to you.”

Blake pauses. What _does_ matter to her? What would Yang accept as a genuine oath? Sometimes telling the truth is the easier path. Words tumble past her lips, earnest, though a bit stiff. “I swear on the lives of my people, in Menagerie.”

Yang cocks her head, observing her in silence, and Blake forces herself not to bristle under the scrutiny. She must have passed the test, though, because eventually the knight sighs, sets down her sword on the log that served as her seat, and walks up to Blake. Her hair is bundled up in a messy topknot, strands of fire escaping from the mass of it, twirling by her ears. For half a second, Blake is transfixed by the sight of her: tall and golden like an ancient hero from a fairytale, yet solid and _real_ in a way no other person has ever looked to her. Then she realizes that Yang is waiting, one hand extended for Blake to grab. She lets herself be pulled to her feet. 

“I want to trust you,” Yang says, in a low tone, hand still holding Blake’s. “Please, do not make a fool out of me again.” Maybe it’s the seriousness of her voice, maybe the feel of her calloused fingers around her wrist - or maybe it’s something else altogether that makes Blake quiver. Yang unties the rope, and throws it to the ground. Blake lets out a sigh of relief, and without further ado, she walks away. The stream beside which they chose to set up camp this evening is a narrow thing, bordered by scattered wet rocks and muddy banks, but the water is clear and peaceful, and it will do. Blake removes her boots, then her stockings, and dips a foot in, carefully. The cold water feels amazing after a day of hiking.

“Be quick about it.” When she turns, Blake finds Yang standing a few feet behind her, arms crossed, looking nonplussed.

Blake shrugs off her dirty shirt in response, raising an eyebrow at her. “Are you going to watch me undress? Did you not swear an oath of gallantry, dear knight?”

Pink colors the top of Yang’s freckled cheeks. “I…” She fixes her gaze somewhere above Blake’s head. “Get in the water, please.” The words carry the appearance of a command, but Blake doesn’t miss the tremor in Yang’s voice, to her delight. Clearly, her knight isn’t quite immune to everything in her arsenal, and there’s something thrilling about unsettling someone usually so steadfast. Which is why she takes off her breeches next, placing them neatly on top of her boots, and then risks a glance back at Yang. She hasn’t moved an inch, standing so rigidly she could be mistaken for one of the decorative suits of armor scattered around the palace of Kuo Kuana, shoulders drawn up, neck tense. She’s looking up at the canopy, avoiding Blake’s almost naked figure but still facing in her direction. Her right hand fidgets with the dagger hanging at her belt, in an almost endearing show of nerves. 

She’s so different from Adam, who always took great pleasure in humiliating everyone in his power, whenever he had the chance. Blake is struck by the thought, and warmth spreads in her chest, because despite everything that happened in the past two days, despite the fact that she is alone in the woods, barely decent, facing a fully dressed knight in chainmail, Blake feels utterly _safe_.

It’s what moves her to speak. “You can look away without fear, Belladonnas keep their word. I promise I’m not going to run away from you in my underclothes.”

At that Yang’s eyes find hers, gold meeting purple like the sun setting in the evening sky, and it’s Blake’s turn to blush, heat rising up the column of her neck, burning red on her cheeks. But Yang’s eyes don’t stray, as she nods, once, solemnly, before turning her back to Blake and sitting down. She lays her sword on her knees, picks the whetstone, and goes back to her work, silently. Blake finds herself exhaling through her mouth, like something great and dangerous had been on the verge of happening, both relieved and, incomprehensibly, disappointed.

When she’s done, clean, her wet hair braided, wearing Yang's spare long shirt while her clothes dry by the fire, she sits in front of Yang on the mossy log, and Yang, with a small smile, tosses her the pouch of meat jerky. She doesn’t tie her hands again, after that evening, and Blake doesn’t know if that means she won or lost. 

5 -

They fall into a routine, together, and it feels easy, natural, like grass growing back once the last snow has thawed.

They wake up at dawn. Yang boils some water in her tin cooking pot, mixes some dry oat flakes in with a drop of honey, and they eat breakfast listening to the song of morning birds. One of them cleans up and fills the water-skins, the other packs the bedroll and feeds Amber, and then they’re on their way, following narrow paths and deer trails and the muddy banks of forest streams, orienting themselves with the sun. They take a couple breaks to eat and drink, mostly silent, too tired to talk. Eventually, the daylight dims, and they set up camp somewhere close to water. Blake goes hunting for small game, with a sling she fashioned out of braided rope and a piece of leather, while Yang takes care of Amber, giving her oats and apples and water, and brushing twigs and leaves out of her mane. Yang doesn’t even think twice about letting Blake carry a weapon, or letting her go alone in the woods - she can’t quite explain it, but she trusts her completely.

They see no sign of human presence, no hint that they are being pursued: they are utterly alone, in this vast forest that doesn’t seem to have an end. So they keep each other company, each evening, by the campfire, as Blake cooks whatever she managed to catch, and Yang polishes her sword or mends the inevitable tears in their clothes. They don’t talk much, except to comment on the weather, the daily hike, the dinner, but it’s a peaceful kind of quiet between them, the kind that comes when two people become accustomed to one another.

On their seventh evening in the woods, as they sit by the fire, grilling two fish Bake caught in a larger stream, Yang asks: “Where did you learn to catch fish by hand? That hardly seems a skill taught to royalty.”

Blake smiles - an earnest, fond smile, one Yang has never seen on her. It transforms her face, softens her, and there’s a pang of yearning in Yang’s chest. She desperately wants to keep watching Blake’s smile. She takes a sip from the water-skin to distract herself from the unfamiliar, unreasonable thought.

“Actually, my mother taught me.”

Yang chokes on her water. “Her Majesty, Queen Kali, taught you how to fish?”

“She did,” Blake confirms, still smiling. “She’s incredibly skilled at it, and often took me fishing on a boat when I was a child. We’d bring back buckets of fish for the palace cooks to fry or bake.” Her eyes glaze over then, as she loses herself in memory, and her smile disappears. Yang’s chest aches.

“Did she also teach you how to fight?” she asks, her tone light in hopes of reviving that lost smile. Something even better happens, instead: Blake laughs.

It’s a short laughter, quick as a bird’s cry, but the sound fills Yang with warmth, better than the campfire ever did, sweeter than all the cups of ale pushed in her hands by laughing tavern girls on her way to Blake. She’s so bemused by the sensation, she doesn’t even realize Blake answered already, and is now looking at her expectantly, if a bit confused.

“Sorry, what did you say?”

“I said it wasn’t my mother who taught me, but the king himself. My father was a knight, you know, and has won many a joust in his youth, before he took the throne. He taught me how to handle any weapon, though I was always partial to the shortsword and the saber. He used to say he wanted to teach his heir how to protect themselves, because a crown brings more enemies than it does friends.”

Yang recalls the fight she interrupted, the way Blake moved, one with her sword like a deadly wisp of smoke, the dangerous grace of her. “I think he succeeded.”

Blake nods, and turns her sharp gaze on Yang. “What about you? Were your parents involved in your training? You mentioned you are the daughter of Lord Taiyang of Patch.”

“You have a good memory, Princess, “ Yang says, evading the question with a compliment. “Do you know my father?”

“I believe I’ve met him once, at King Ozpin’s court in Beacon Castle. He made my father laugh. He seemed like a kind man.”

Yang allows herself a smile as she thinks of her father, his strong arms, his toothy grin, his blond thick hair, which she inherited. “He is. But he’s also a mighty fighter, and a great cavalier. Many wild horses live on Patch, and he has taken to training them. His stable is renowned across Remnant. He taught my sister Ruby and me how to ride, and as children we used to gallop across the estate…” Overcome by sudden nostalgia, she stops talking. It has been months now since she last saw her family, and she misses them, her father’s good humor, her sister’s bright eyes and brighter heart. She shakes her head, turning back to Blake. “Have you ever seen wild horses racing through the moorlands, Your Highness?”

“No,” Blake replies, and pauses, and then, in a tone of voice that almost sounds wistful, she adds, “but I would like to see them, one day, I think.” Yang’s heart gives another of those strange pangs, unfamiliar and pressing. 

Blake puts her arms around her bent knees, and leans her chin atop them, and turns her attention back to Yang, her eyes heavy with sleep and thoughts alike. “Why did you become a knight?”

Yang adds a couple of branches to their campfire, watching the flames lap at the dry wood hungrily, the bright orange-yellow glow of them the only point of light in the darkness. “I was raised by a woman who shone like a bright light in this dark world, a good woman, who only wanted to do good. But me? It’s adventure I’ve always been after. Since I was a child, learning how to ride and play-fighting with my sister, I’ve only wanted one thing: to see the world. I didn’t think much further than that.”

Blake is still staring at her with those keen, insightful eyes of hers, so intent Yang shivers, as if suddenly she had laid herself bare in front of the princess. “This is not as heroic as you thought, I’m sure,” she lets out, with an awkward chuckle. 

“No, but it’s real.”

Yang isn’t sure how to respond, and so she doesn’t. She also does not tell Blake of her creeping, dreadful sense of purposelessness, how it weights down her limbs, numbing her heart, one deed after the next, one more quest, one more war. 

They stay silent, after that, the two of them eating their dinner by the fire, and Yang tries very hard to focus on anything but her companion, but she ends up stealing glances at Blake every so often. It’s the first time they’ve really talked, without animosity, without suspicion, and Yang feels like she’s been given a gift she never expected. The glow of the fire tints Blake’s face in orange hues, sharpening the planes and angles of her face, painting red accents in the dark of her hair and small dancing flames on her pupils.

When they set up to sleep, that night, Yang can’t help but notice how close they are, lying down on the soft ground, side by side, in the dark, under Yang’s bedroll. So close they could touch, if Yang moved her arm an inch. So close the rise and fall of Blake’s soft breathing fills her ears, eclipsing all the other sounds of the forest at night. 

6 -

They make it out of the woods in the middle of the eighth day, and are met with fields of wheat undulating in the soft breeze, golden hills ripening under the sun. A modest dirt road cuts through them. Blake’s eyes follow the path, squinting a little from the glare of the sunlight, until she sees, on the horizon, the shape of a town.

A town means people, and goods to sell and buy. It means a chance at a real bed, and hot food, and a bath. But it also means danger, if Blake is recognized, either as the Princess of Menagerie or as a former White Fang member. If she were alone, she would rely on her ability to vanish into the crowd unnoticed, but she’s traveling with a knight, and a notorious one at that, if she’s to trust the little bits of information she’s gleaned from Yang over the course of their journey. Maybe it would be safer for her to sneak off, get herself a horse, track back the White Fang and finish what she started. Adam still has to be stopped, before he can hurt more people, and manipulate wide-eyed youth into following him, like he did with her. 

Yes, it would be safer, and the right thing to do, but Blake’s throat tightens at the thought. She swallows, painfully. The last few days, she’s let herself dream of her parents, of Kuo Kuana, of the palace gardens. Adam seems far away, like a distant nightmare, not quite real anymore, and certainly not enough to prevent her from going back home and making amends. And of course there’s Yang, whom she told she would follow to Menagerie. When she swore her oath, almost a week ago, it was mostly out of self-preservation, fully aware that she may renege on her words once safely out of the woods. Now, though, the idea of perjuring herself, of breaking her promise to Yang, fills her with a strange kind of dread. Adam remains a threat, and her responsibility, but maybe she can deal with him and his misguided followers once she's back in Menagerie…

Blake senses Yang’s cautious eyes on her. “I won’t run,” she promises once more. The knight relaxes at her side, and bumps her shoulder, in a casual show of camaraderie. 

“All right Princess, let’s get you a nice bed for the night, shall we? I can’t promise this town will have accommodations befitting a royal heir, but they’re bound to be more comfortable than my bedroll.” She winks at that, and for some reason, Blake’s cheeks burn a deep red.

As they get closer to the town, they encounter people on the road - farmers, too preoccupied with the day’s labor to do much more than nod a distracted greeting, children chasing each other through the fields, trailing pearls of raucous laughter behind them, a middle-aged woman trying to get her donkey to move, an old man pushing a cart filled with apples. The man offers one of his fruits to Yang, who then makes a show of looking between Blake and Amber with a frown, before ultimately presenting the fruit to her horse. Blake pretends to take offense, and they both laugh at the silly scene. Yang looks beautiful when she laughs, Blake thinks, young and carefree, golden and rich like the wheat growing around them.

They ask the woman with the donkey the name of the town, and Yang’s face lights up when she hears it. “Oh, I know the place! We aren’t too far from the border with Vale, and my father’s estate - five or six days on horseback, at most. Patch is on the coast, close to Vale Harbor. From there we can easily board a ship sailing to Kuo Kuana. The rest of our journey should be much faster, Your Highness.”

“That’s good,” Blake says. Somehow, the idea that her time with Yang will soon end tastes bittersweet, despite her newfound resolve to go home. 

The town isn’t much more than a large countryside village, but the cobblestone streets brim over with people, and the central market square is overflowing with stalls and carts. Merchants boast of their fruits, pastries, and grilled meats, cloths and weapons and whicker baskets, luxurious items and ordinary objects of everyday life. Mesmerized, Blake doesn’t know where to look, overwhelmed by so many colors and noises and smells after the monotony of the woods. Yang stops a young boy to ask what the excitement is all about: it’s the yearly end of summer fair, he tells them, bright-eyed with glee, and farmers and merchants from all over the region have converged here to celebrate.

“Inns will be full,” Yang muses, forlorn. “It may be harder than we expected to find a room.”

“I am more worried about the fact that we seem to attract a lot of attention,” Blake mutters under her breath. She’s noticed people gazing at the two of them openly, murmuring to each other as they push through the crowd, and it isn’t hard to understand why. They make a strange pair of travelers, after all, disheveled and road-weary, Blake wearing clothes too fine to pass as a farmer, but too plain for a merchant girl, Yang with her greatsword and the chainmail clicking ominously underneath her cloak. The dashing warhorse trailing after them does not help. 

Struck by an idea, Blake grabs Yang by the arm, and unceremoniously tugs her into a back alley, away from the market and its thousand curious eyes. “Give me your cloak,” she says, urgently.

“What?”

“Your cloak. It is a bit too large for me, of course, but I’ll look like a noble lady wearing a travel garment to protect her fancy dress from the dust of the roads, and the hood will hide my hair. If I ride on Amber, the illusion will be complete.”

“What about me?” Yang asks, as she unties her red cloak and dutifully hands it to Blake. 

Blake puts it on. It’s too long, and too warm for the summer weather really, but it covers her perfectly, from hair to ankles. She wraps the material around her body, and resists the urge to inhale - Yang’s scent, mixed with campfire smoke, lingers in the air, intoxicating. She shakes her head. “You’ll be my devoted knight of course, my protector. No noble would leave their castle without an escort.” 

She examines Yang critically. “Put the helm on. Shield on your arm, sword in its sheath, strapped to your back. Perfect, now you look like a proper woman-at-arms accompanying her liege.”

“Do you need assistance to get atop your mount, my lady?” Yang asks with exaggerated deference. 

Blake rolls her eyes, but a grin tugs at the corner of her lips. She likes how easily Yang agreed to her idea, without questioning her, or doubting the worth of every single aspect of her plan. She’s used to people dismissing her, from the courtiers and royal advisors, who always disregarded her opinions on how to best administer a kingdom, treating her title as ornamental rather than a responsibility, to Adam, who was as cutting with his words as he was with his swords, whenever she dared to contradict him.

But Yang trusts her, despite the fraught beginning of their relationship. More than that, Blake realizes with a start, as she hops on Amber’s back with ease, settling in the saddle, Yang respects her. Something bubbles in her chest, bright and joyful, and the need to smile at Yang, or laugh, or, even worse, thank her, threatens to overcome Blake. She reins it in, with some difficulty.

“Is everything alright, Princess?” Yang asks, looking up at her with concern.

Blake nods, flustered, and, not trusting herself to speak, lest she lets something embarrassing transpire, signals Yang to lead the way with an imperious jut of the chin. 

7 -

Yang is no stranger to service. 

As a girl of ten, she was sent to the household of one of her father’s allies, as is the custom for children of the lower nobility destined to knighthood. There, she lived for three years as Lady Goodwitch’s page, carrying messages and serving meals, training in horse-riding and practicing the sword with other pages. When she was thirteen, Her Ladyship judged her manners and skills satisfactory, and she was sent to her uncle, Sir Qrow, a knight-errant, to serve as his squire. She took care of his horse, his armor, and his weapons, and assisted him in jousts and battles alike, for four more years, until she was presented to King Ozpin, and dubbed a knight in her own right. She was seventeen.

As a knight, she took an oath to serve the people and the land, monarchs and peasants alike, and so Yang has served, faithfully, for years, the kingdoms of Remnant. She understands duty and loyalty better than most, she knows how to obey orders as well as she knows how to give them. 

So it should be a simple thing, to pretend to serve Blake as her sworn knight, an easy role to fill, one that barely demands any effort. And yet, feelings simmer in her belly, reluctance and a peculiar form of yearning in equal parts. Maybe it’s because she got used to being in control, maybe because their relationship took the shape of a partnership of sorts later on, but Yang’s heart rebels furiously at the idea of Blake commanding her - and at the same time, because her heart is a traitorous organ, she can’t deny that part of her relishes it too. It’s an explosive mix, one that makes her moodier than she usually is.

The Princess of Menagerie, on her end, plays the part of a noble woman on a trip far from home to perfection: she exudes a natural air of authority, posture confident and almost obnoxiously haughty, a far cry from the girl hunting in the woods or brandishing her shortsword at a brigand.

“Help me down,” she tells Yang, when they reach the courtyard of the busiest inn of the town, loud enough for all the stable boys and girls to hear. Yang clenches her jaw, and lowers one knee to the ground, so that Blake may use the other one as a stepladder as she dismounts. The princess does so elegantly, snapping her fingers to one of the stable boys. “Please take care of my horse, lad, while I rest inside.” 

The boy bows, clearly intimidated, and quickly deposits the satchels hanging from the saddle at Blake’s feet, before hurrying away with Amber, who gives Yang a reproachful look as she’s lead to the stables. 

“Will you carry our bags, good knight?” Blake asks, demurely. There’s a wicked glint in her eyes, however, one that tells Yang that the princess is taking great pleasure in the unplanned role playing.

“I think you’re enjoying yourself a bit too much,” Yang grumbles, shouldering the satchels, and following her inside the inn.

“I don’t know what you mean.” 

They step inside the main hall, and are greeted immediately by the innkeeper, a stocky woman with grey hair and grey eyes. “Will you require lodging, my lady?”

“Two rooms,” Blake says, with the air of someone used to getting what they want. “And a hot meal.”

The innkeeper grimaces. “I’m afraid our town fair has filled up the house with travelers, and we only have one room left to rent for the night.” She glances at Yang, apologetic. “But if your knight doesn’t mind company, there is a bed available in the common room.”

“There is no need. We’ll share the room.” 

“I don’t mind—,” Yang starts, but Blake cuts her off with an authoritative hand gesture.

“You’ll sleep on the floor. I want you to stay close, in case I need you.” It’s nothing out of the ordinary, a normal expectation of service for a noble woman, but as soon as the words escape Blake’s mouth, she blushes, lightly, like she let out a secret without meaning to. Yang stares at her reddening cheeks, half indignant at having to give up a bed for the floor, half enthralled by the idea of Blake needing her, until the innkeeper clears her throat.

“As you wish. Shall I have the meal delivered to your room?”

“Yes, thank you.” Blake pauses, and, then adds, as if struck by sudden inspiration, “And please have a bath drawn for me there.”

The innkeeper nods and directs them to the room. It’s a modest chamber, one bed, one small table, one single chair and a view of the courtyard, but it’s clean and comfortable, with a fireplace and a thick blanket neatly placed on the bed, for even in summertime the nights are cold in this part of Remnant. 

“A bath? Really?” Yang complains in a low voice, as soon as the door closes behind them. Blake grins, but before she can reply they hear a knock, and three maids come in carrying a wooden washtub, and buckets of hot water, as well as a bar of soap and a clean cloth to dry oneself.

“If you please, milady, I can help you bathe,” one of them offers when they’re done filling the tub, but Blake waves her away. 

“My dear knight will assist me, have no worries.”

Yang’s ears burn, as the maids exchange knowing looks and exit the room in a flurry of poorly suppressed giggles. “That’s not something a knight does,” she protests between gritted teeth. 

Blake shrugs, already shedding the heavy cloak, and unlacing her boots. “Isn’t a sworn knight supposed to do whatever is asked of her, really?” 

“I’m a warrior, Your Highness, not your handmaiden. You should do well not to forget it.”

At Yang’s annoyed tone, Blake has the decency to look contrite. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I don’t need help bathing, I just wanted us to be alone.”

Yang raises an eyebrow, irritation forgotten. “You wanted us to be alone… for your bath?” 

The blush creeps back up Blake’s throat, darkening her cheeks, and Yang thinks, distantly, that she will never tire of the sight. “You know what I mean,” Blake mutters, defensively, avoiding Yang’s eyes. She fingers the edge of her shirt, staring at a point just to the right of Yang’s head, until Yang gets the message and pivots, facing the window instead of the washtub. 

She sits down on the only chair, leaning her shield and her sword against the wall, slowly discarding her chainmail, her belt, her padded doublet, her boots, all while trying her hardest not to pay attention to the sounds of Blake undressing and entering the tub. In the courtyard, two stable girls are playing with blunt wooden swords, and Yang watches them, nostalgic for her childhood, absorbed enough in the view that she forgets the princess taking a bath in the same room as her, until Blake speaks. 

“Could you hand me the soap?”

Yang tenses. She swallows, and turns around slowly. Of Blake she can only see the head, a cascade of dark hair, and the top of bent knees - the rest of her body is hidden from view by the edges of the tub. She looks small, contained as she is in this wooden vessel, fragile, not like a former member of the White Fang, ferocious and cunning, nor the Princess of Menagerie, powerful, clever, confident, nor even a patronizing high-born lady, her latest role - no, she looks like a girl of nineteen, lonely and conflicted and exhausted.

Yang picks the bar of soap from the table - it smells of jasmine and honey, sweet and flowery - and she drags the chair by the washtub, until she can sit behind a dumbfounded Blake. “I’ll wash your hair,” she says, unable to stop herself.

“I… You don’t have to…” Blake stutters, clearly taken aback by Yang’s sudden change of heart, sitting up instinctively, revealing the planes of her shoulder blades, the arc of her spine. 

“I want to help. You look so tired, and I don’t have anything else to do.” Yang pauses. Blake doesn’t move, or speak, but from her new vantage point Yang watches the tense curve of Blake’s bare back, taut as a bowstring, relax progressively. “Let me help,” she repeats, gently, almost pleadingly. 

“Alright.”

And so Yang, knight-errant of Remnant, protector of the people, washes the hair of the Princess of Menagerie, and a quiet contentment settles in her heart, inside the armor of her ribs, warm and soft like freshly baked bread ; she pours water down Blake’s head, and lathers soap in her hands before massaging it into Blake’s hair, from her scalp down to the tip of her dark wavy hair, and Blake lets her, quiet and pliant under Yang’s touch.

Yang is no stranger to service. But this is a different beast altogether - it’s a kindness freely offered, and freely accepted ; it’s a tremendous show of trust and vulnerability. 

In the small room of a country inn, rinsing soap suds out of Blake’s hair with careful, gentle hands, Yang learns that you can find precious meaning, purpose even, in the most menial of tasks, when it is done for the right person.

8- 

Supper consists of soup and bread and two slices of meat-pie, with some delicious honeycakes for dessert and a jug of cold cider, and it’s better than anything Blake has had in weeks, maybe even months. They devour their meal in silence, too hungry to make conversation, and only when they’re both satiated and the plates empty does Yang take her bedroll from the satchel, and unfurls it by the door.

Blake raises an eyebrow. “What are you doing?”

“Going to sleep. I’m exhausted.”

“Don’t be a fool, we’ll share the bed. I only said you’d sleep on the floor for the sake of appearances.”

Yang eyes the bed, then Blake. “Are you sure, Princess?”

“Yes. We both need the rest.”

It’s nothing new, after all: they’ve been sleeping next to each other, sharing Yang’s bedroll, for a full week. Blake tells herself this, firmly, as they lie down under the warm blanket, facing opposite directions. It’s nothing new, but it feels new anyway - a strange kind of unfamiliarity, not unpleasant, nor overwhelming, but _there_ all the same, at the back of her mind. Blake rolls onto her back, restless, acutely aware of Yang’s body, still beside her. It must be the abrupt change of surroundings, she reasons, the soft mattress replacing the forest floor underneath them, a ceiling made of beams and planks instead of the green canopy above their heads. Even the silence is different - in the woods, she fell asleep to the muted cries of nocturnal animals, the crackling of their campfire, the brook running close by, the light breeze ruffling the leaves. But the silence of their small room is troubled only by the sounds of their breathing, of the bedsheets crumpling when either of them move, of Blake’s own heartbeat, slowing down as she, exhausted, comfortable, clean and safe, falls asleep. 

She wakes up at dawn with her body pressed against something warm and soft, and it takes her sleep-addled brain a few minutes to realize that she’s not cuddled up to a massive pillow: she’s holding Yang, her front to the knight’s back, one arm slung around the curve of her waist, her nose buried in Yang’s hair. 

Blake freezes. They must have gotten close during the night, maybe in search of bodily warmth. These things happen, she knows from her experience camping out with the White Fang - people sleeping in the same bed gravitate towards each other, it’s a natural human instinct. Right?

She’s never woken up holding someone though. Under her arm, Yang seems more like a country girl than a knight, wearing a simple long shirt instead of her armor, chest rising and falling gently with her breath, excruciatingly vulnerable. Her hair still smells of campfire smoke, the scent reminding Blake of their nights sleeping under the stars and the trees. Will they camp in the rolling hills, tonight, or will they find a travel inn? And if so, will they sleep in the same room? In the same bed? Maybe it’d be best if they didn’t, for Blake has never cared much about conventions and proper etiquette, to the despair of many a royal tutor, but even _she_ knows that she probably shouldn’t be so thrilled by the prospect of sharing a bed with Yang again.

Eventually, Blake removes her arm, carefully, and slips out of bed. As soon as her bare feet touch the wooden floor, Yang rolls around to lay on her back, eyes open and fully alert, sending Blake a smile so bright and cheerful that Blake, without thinking, smiles in return, before realization dawns on her. “You were awake the whole time? Why didn’t you push me away?”

Yang’s smile widens, which Blake wouldn’t have thought possible. “You needed the sleep, I didn’t want to wake you up too early.”

Blake turns away to hide the darkening color of her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs, though she’s not quite sure what she’s apologizing for. She focuses on getting dressed, quickly and methodically: undershirt, woolen stockings, deerskin breeches, belt, tunic. She hears the rustle of sheets, light footfalls, before there’s a brief, gentle touch on her shoulder. 

“No harm done, Your Highness,” Yang says, casually, smile still so bright it almost makes Blake forget her embarrassment, and then Yang opens the door and steps in the hallway. “I’ll be back with breakfast.”

She closes the door behind her. Blake lets out a deep sigh.

After breakfast, they pay the innkeeper, retrieve their horse, and wander into the market. Yang, hair down, out of her chainmail for once, wearing breeches and a brown tunic and looking like a farmer’s daughter, is intent on refilling her supplies, which they mostly depleted during their long journey through the forest. They need foodstuff, oats for Amber, some coils of rope and a new flint stone, a second bedroll for Blake. All sensible gear to get, and all very boring. While Yang tediously bargains with an old recalcitrant farmer for apples and grains, Blake, swaddled in the red cloak and trying her best to look inconspicuous, meanders through the various stalls, taking in the vast quantity of goods, feeling like she did when her parents took her to the Kuo Kuana bazaar for the first time as a child: curious and delighted. Traveling with the White Fang meant being on the run for months, eager to get to safety, fearful of crowds, going to isolated farms rather than towns to trade for food. Adam would never have let her stroll through such a lively fair on her own, and not for the first time since she was taken away from him unwillingly, Blake relishes her newly regained freedom. 

She takes a deep breath by the baker’s table, inhaling the wonderful smell of warm, freshly baked loaves, makes a detour to look at a fisherman’s offering, fish of all sizes and shapes laid on blocks of ice, their scales glistening and glinting in the morning daylight, admires the colorful fares of a jeweler. 

She’s distractedly walking through overflowing vegetable stands, when she stops in her tracks in front of the blacksmith stall, eyes set on a pair of beautiful curved shortswords, their steel grip wrapped in leather, the pommels round and gilded. She trails a finger down the length of one of the blades, admiring the smooth surface, the almost inaudible sound of her fingertip running on metal. So absorbed is she in them, that she doesn’t notice him until it’s too late. 

“Hello, Princess.”

She stills. Beside her, too close for comfort, Adam grins. He smells of sweat and horse and smoke - the smell of someone who’s been traveling for days. He’s been tracking her ; _of course_ , he’s been tracking her, she knew he would, he’s not the type to let someone who challenged him escape unpunished, yet she still feels her body lock in place at the sight of him in the market, like the sudden intrusion of a violent nightmare in an otherwise perfectly peaceful night of sleep. 

“Have you lost your pet?” he asks, malevolently.

Blake refuses to face him, hands closing into fists. He lets out a snort, and leans his hip against the stall. “Sorry, should I say your loyal knight? Your guard dog? I saw the two of you in town yesterday. You seemed pretty friendly with her, for someone she abducted.”

“What do you want, Adam?” she asks between gritted teeth, staring at the swords. 

“Well, I want you, of course.” At that she finally looks him in the eye, and his grin widens, patronizing and cruel. “I want you to apologize to me, and tell me you’ve learned your lesson, and then I want you to come back, so we can keep doing our work, instead of you wasting my precious time on petty, childish squabbles.”

“There is nothing petty, nothing childish, about my disagreement with you.”

He grips her arm suddenly, fingers digging into her flesh like claws. His smile has vanished, replaced by an angry rictus. “Listen to me, you righteous, insufferable little…”

“Get away from her.”

Yang’s voice sounds loud and clear despite the brouhaha of the market around them, interrupting the flow of mean, furious words coming out of his mouth. Blake takes the opportunity to shake off his grasp, stepping away from him. 

In front of them, Yang stands with her feet wide apart, knees slightly bent, hands opened at her sides - a brawler’s stance. Blake remembers her fight with Adam, more than a week ago, how Yang intervened in much the same way. Except this time, she’s weaponless, having left the greatsword strapped to Amber’s back with her armor and shield.

“You again,” Adam says, in a bored tone. And, moving so swiftly that Blake’s eyes don’t register what he does until too late, he hurls a small, sharp knife at Yang. The blade sinks into her shoulder, the one that seems to bother her regularly. Yang lets out a grunt of pain, and staggers back, unbalanced, as Adam stalks towards her. He takes his sword out of the sheath hanging from his belt.

“Pathetic,” he snarls. “One hit and you’re down, you pitiful excuse for a knight. No wonder Remnant has fallen so low.”

Yang, jaw muscles locked in pain and determination, grabs the knife and, steadily, pulls it free. Her eyes never leave Adam’s face. Blood wells up at the wound, staining her tunic a deep red, but she valiantly holds the knife in front of her, ridiculously small compared to Adam’s sword.

“I don’t care who you are,” he says calmly, with a brief, joyless smile. “You took something of mine, and for that I’ll have your head.”

He lifts his sword with both hands. Before he can strike, Blake jumps into action. She grabs the two shortswords on display and runs, sliding between Yang and him, both blades crossed above her head as his arms bear down. The shock is greater that she expected - pain flares, from wrist bone to shoulder blade, like rivulets of fire in her veins, and her arms shake from the impact. Nevertheless, she holds him off, fueled by fear and a hot, frothy kind of anger that boils inside her stomach.

“Your quarrel is with me, Adam. You shouldn’t have hurt her.” 

Adam frees his sword from the trap of her blades with a jerk, and glances between the two of them, his blue eye searching, his brow creased in incomprehension. “You’re protecting her?”

“Yes, like she protected me.” _From you_ is left unsaid, but clear to all concerned. Adam’s face congeals, and something terrible darkens his features, something hateful and bitter and possessive, something that was always there, lurking beneath his charming smiles.

His longsword arcs in a flash of metal, but Blake is faster. She steps to the side, out of reach, and with one blade feints at his chest, while her other blade slashes at his upper thigh, cutting through cloth and skin. He groans, steps back, and strikes again, fast and brutal, but she’s moved already, and his sword only meets air. Sweat beads at Blake’s hairline, dampens the back of her shirt. She thrusts the tip of one sword at his shoulder, he deflects the blow effortlessly, but this time he expects her second attack and blocks it as well. 

What he doesn’t expect is her foot slamming against his right knee with all her might. Something crunches satisfyingly, and Blake grins, savage, at the way his face tightens. 

A crowd has gathered around them by now, curious fairgoers and villagers sporting concerned frowns. All eyes are on them - it reminds Blake of their fight, a week ago, in the White Fang hide-out. This time, though, they aren’t Adam’s people. Even with the blood beating loudly in her ears, Blake makes out worried murmurs about calling the guard. One villager, a woman with arms like trunks, starts making her way through the crowd towards them, a dangerous-looking hammer in one hand. 

Adam must notice all the attention they’re getting, because he abruptly takes a few steps back, and sheathes his sword. Blake doesn’t move. She’s breathing heavily now, and her arms are vibrating with tension.

“I’ll find you,” he says, walking backwards, limping slightly, glaring at her. “And you’ll both pay.” The crowd separates to let him pass, and in a matter of seconds, he’s gone. 

Blake lets her arms fall down her sides, and turns towards Yang, ice-cold worry replacing the burning anger in her belly. Yang looks a bit pale, but she’s still standing, one hand pressed against the wound to stop the flow of blood, and she’s looking at Blake with an awestruck expression that steals the air from Blake’s lungs. “You really are a formidable fighter,” Yang says, earnest and admiring. And then she adds, in a lower voice, “Thank you.” 

Blake nods, a sudden lump in her throat preventing her from speaking, and walks to the blacksmith’s stall, sheepishly offering the swords back to him. 

“You should keep them, my lady,” he says with a deep bow and an appreciative smile. She refuses, politely, because she is one of the wealthiest people of Remnant, and it would be shameful to accept such a gift when she can afford as many swords as she likes. 

When she turns back, Amber is nudging Yang’s head with her mouth, neighing impatiently.

“Hey, I think this one’s the Flame of Remnant!” a young boy cries loudly, sitting on the shoulders of an older man, pointing at Yang. Others start exclaiming as well, and the crowd surrounding them grows even bigger. It seems that Yang’s presence is a much more exciting attraction than a duel between two strangers. Still, onlookers haven’t forgotten about Blake either.

“Who is your companion, Sir Knight?” an old woman yells at Yang, gesturing towards Blake with her cane. “She fought well. Is she a knight too?”

With all eyes on them, it’s only a matter of time before someone recognizes her. Blake edges closer to Yang, calmly, and whispers in her ear, “We should go.”

9 -

Riding with a wounded shoulder is excruciating - every step the horse takes, sickening pain reverberates all the way down to her fingertips, up her neck, pulsing on the right side of her chest. Yang clenches her jaw, stubbornly swallowing down the urge to moan, but she knows she shouldn’t ignore the blood still trickling down the length of her arm despite the strip of cloth she used to bind her shoulder. Thankfully, as soon as they’re far enough from the village, Blake, who is riding in front of Yang on the saddle and directing Amber, pulls the reins, insisting that they stop and take care of Yang.

They choose a lovely spot for such a grim task - a hillside, covered in blooming flowers. Tiny, delicate white flowers, long-petaled blue flowers, purple and red and bright yellow, all around them, a cacophony of colors and shapes. The air is saturated with their sweet scent, and with the buzzing of bees lazily flying from one nectar-filled stem to the next. 

“Do you like flowers, Your Highness?” Yang asks as Blake dismounts and holds a hand out to help her do the same. Blake quirks an eyebrow. Yang carefully gets down, biting the inside of her mouth to stop herself from crying out at the sharp burst of pain. “I only ask,” she says, a little breathless, “because the gardens of Kuo Kuana are known for their beautiful flowers. I had the privilege of seeing them, you know, when I visited your parents. Wonderful place.”

Blake, with a gentle arm around her waist, lowers her so that she sits on the soft grass. “You can see them again, soon.”

Yang hums. “I’d like that.” 

Between the two of them, they make short work of Yang’s bloodstained tunic, removing her undershirt as well until she is bared from head to waist, keeping only the band around her breasts. The blood loss has left Yang a little lightheaded, but she still has to fight the old, familiar burn of shame in her chest, when Blake’s eyes fall on her for the first time.

Her right shoulder, from the top of her collarbone to the middle of her arm muscle, is a crisscrossing patchwork of scars, mottled white and pink, some big and raised, others smaller, thin and smooth. In contrast, the stab wound, right above the armpit, is a raw, bloody, messy hole of shredded flesh and nerves, the skin already bruising purple around it, dry blood crusting at the edge and all down Yang’s arm to the crook of her elbow.

It’s a terrible sight to behold, Yang knows from experience, but Blake doesn’t say anything, moving to rummage through the satchels at Amber’s side for the healing supplies. She comes back with the water-skin, Yang’s extra shirt, the clotting salve, the sewing kit, and the flacon of prune liquor Yang purchased less than an hour ago at the fair. Then she kneels on the grass, by Yang’s right side, very close, and Yang lets out a shaky breath. “Can you stitch it shut?” She can do it herself - has done so, in fact, once, using her free hand and her teeth and a good deal of alcohol - but it’s a special kind of hell she’d rather avoid. 

Blake nods as she rips the cotton shirt into stripes of roughly equal length. “I’m not great at it, but you’ll live. First, though, let’s clean the wound, so I can get a better look.”

She pours water on Yang’s shoulder, dabs around the edges of the wound with a piece of shirt, pours some more water, wipes, again and again until she’s sponged up most of the blood. Yang doesn’t make a sound through the whole process, silenced both by pain and self-consciousness. 

Gentle fingers prod around the injury, inevitably touching the old scars, and bile rises to the back of Yang’s throat, instinctively. Blake’s head is bent down as she peers at the wound ; she’s so close that Yang feels the warm fog of her breath on her neck. Blake’s hair still smells of honey and jasmine from the soap. Somehow, this calms Yang’s frazzled heart.

“You’re lucky, I don’t think the blade hit any bones,” Blake says. There is an odd, restrained quality to her voice, like she's trying her best to sound impassible, and not quite succeeding. She opens the sewing kit, and takes out an iron needle and a thread, and puts the flacon of liquor into Yang’s left hand. “This will hurt,” she adds. Her hand hovers over Yang’s scarred upper arm like she means to touch her, to comfort her, before she pulls away.

Yang takes a long swig of alcohol. The burn in her throat is a welcome distraction from the pain, and warmth settles in her stomach pleasantly, just as Blake starts stitching the wound shut. It is painful, but not unbearable, not with the liquor numbing her senses, not with Blake at her side, taking care of her. Yang swallows another mouthful, and sighs. “You can ask, you know. I don’t mind.”

Blake stops mid-suture, glancing up at Yang’s face before resuming her work. “What happened to your shoulder?” she asks, in a very soft voice.

“I lost a fight.”

When Yang stays silent after that, Blake hums quietly. “Must have been a formidable adversary.”

Yang snorts. “Yes, she was.”

“She?”

“Raven Branwen.”

Blake’s eyes widen in shock, but her hands stay admiringly steady as she keeps working. “The bandit queen? You fought the bandit queen and survived?”

“She happens to be my mother.” 

Blake scrunches up her nose, in an expression of confusion too endearing for the situation, right as she sews the last stitch and leans away from Yang. “I thought Lord Taiyang married Lady Summer of House Rose?” At Yang’s surprised look, she shrugs. “A princess is supposed to know every noble family’s history, in case of future alliances. I’ve spent a lot of my childhood memorizing names and lineages.”

“He did marry her,” Yang confirms. “One year after my birth. And Summer was my mother - not by blood, but by choice. Raven left immediately after I was born, and I only saw her once more after that: the day I tried to bring her to justice. She gave me these but let me live, as a favor.”

She points to the scars on her right shoulder with the bottle of prune liquor she’s still holding in her left hand. Blake averts her eyes, lips pressed tightly together as she places the needle and thread back inside the sewing kit, and Yang’s heart seizes painfully. The reaction is not a surprise, if she’s honest - she’s been met with worse - but it stings coming from Blake. She thought… she wanted… well, it doesn’t matter. “Do not fret, Princess, I’ll put my shirt back on. I know people like you are not used to such gruesome sights.”

Bitterness colors her words, and Blake recoils. “What do you mean?”

“Children of high nobility rarely have to confront the brutal consequences of a life of fighting.”

“Do I strike you as a regular noble? Do you know of any other princesses who have joined the White Fang for months, who have lived with the people of Remnant, sharing their plight? Do you seriously think I’d care about a few scars?” Blake’s voice rises progressively as she speaks, visibly heated, cheeks reddening in indignation.

“Why did you look away, then, if it wasn’t from pity and disgust?”

“Because I am angry on your behalf, and I don’t know If I have any right to be!” Blake exclaims, loudly, passionate and earnest. She pauses, her voice grows thinner. “And because I feel terribly guilty, as I am responsible for yet another scar on your body, when the last thing I ever want to do is to hurt you.”

It’s quiet, here on this flowery hillside, where they sit alone with the bees, under the immense, cloudless blue sky. Yang would find it peaceful, if it weren’t for the pain in her shoulder, and, more importantly, the way her heart is thumping wildly against her ribs, like an animal frantic with fear, or maybe with joy. “You’re right,” she manages to say, at last, “you’re not like any other noble I know. I have never met anyone like you.”

Before Blake can respond, Yang takes her hand. “But you’re also wrong, Princess. This is not your fault.” 

“Adam…”

“…is a grown man, responsible for his acts. He attacked first. You, on the other hand, probably saved my life.”

Blake stays silent for some time, squeezing Yang’s hand in her own, staring at the grass. Yang gracefully pretends not to see the tears in her eyes. Instead, she takes one last drink from the flacon, wiping her mouth with the back of her free hand. 

“Will you try and see Raven again?” Blake asks, eventually, moving to bandage Yang’s shoulder. “Do you feel the need to finish what you started?”

“No,” Yang replies, without an ounce of doubt. “For a long time, I thought finding her, and either saving her or defeating her, was my purpose. The central quest of my life. Then I found her, and fought, and lost, and realized: I don’t have any grand purpose. There is no heroic quest I am destined to fulfill.” As the words leave her mouth, unbidden, Yang’s chest fills with a strange mix of relief and apprehension. She’s never talked about this to anyone, never revealed how aimless she feels, drifting from one task to the next. But she’s grown closer to Blake in a week than she has to most people over the course of her life - Blake, the Princess of Menagerie, a girl she will have to leave in seven days or so, when she delivers her safely to her family. The irony isn't lost on her.

“At least, you actually help people,” Blake replies, after a beat. She sounds dejected, defeated - a far cry from the passionate tone she’d used but a few minutes ago. “All my life, I’ve wanted to do something that matters, to fight for justice and peace for all of Remnant, but all I’ve done is make things worse.”

“How do you mean?”

Blake lets out a deep sigh, and wordlessly reaches for the flacon of prune liquor. She takes a gulp, swirling the alcohol in her mouth before speaking. “When one is born into royalty, when a throne is your birthright, it’s easy to take your power for granted, to think you’ve earned it. I never wanted to become another self-important, incompetent, useless ruler. I wanted to prove my worth, to take risks! But my parents…” She sighs again. “They mean well, and there is wisdom in their choices, I know. They try to protect everyone: their people, their kingdom, me. But I grew tired of their carefulness, of their passivity, when people everywhere in Remnant are suffering. That’s when I met Adam.”

Like the threads of a tapestry woven together to depict a scene, the various elements of Blake’s story fit together at last in Yang’s mind, revealing the whole. “He manipulated you into joining the White Fang.”

“He was convincing, and charming, and uncompromising. I thought I could finally do some good. Instead I found myself extorting farmers, terrorizing innocent people, and fighting battles for Adam’s wealthy patrons. No better than a mercenary.”

“So why did you stay? Why fight Adam instead of leaving? Why so reluctant to come with me?”

Blake lowers her head, staring at the ground. “I thought I could change him, or get rid of him. I thought it was my responsibility, after enabling him so blindly.” She chuckles, self-deprecating. “I didn’t want to be a coward, you see. Following you to Menagerie felt like running away from my duty to stop him - but the truth is, I’ve been running away from my duty ever since I left Menagerie in secret. I was a coward all along.” 

Yang, heart swelling with a rush of affection, grabs Blake’s chin between thumb and forefinger, and tilts her head up until Blake meets her eyes. “Princess, you are the bravest soul I know.”

Blake stares at her, bewildered. She swallows, with difficulty, and in doing so briefly draws Yang’s eyes to her bare throat, to the smooth brown skin, the tendons and muscles playing underneath, to the hollow at the base of her neck and the ridges of her collarbones peeking above the rim of her shirt. Yang blinks, and looks back up, into Blake's eyes. “So what if you’ve made mistakes: you’re not one to back down from a challenge. Your heart is strong. You will make a good queen, someday, but I know you won’t wait for a crown to be placed on your head to accomplish great things.” 

Maybe it’s the alcohol talking, or the blood loss, but Yang has never felt so certain in her life.

“Thank you,” Blake says after a pause, a small, genuine smile blooming at the corner of her lips. “I hope I prove worthy of such praise.” She hesitates. “It means a lot to me, coming from the truest knight I’ve ever met.”

They don’t camp in the hills that night, deciding it is safer to rest in a road inn, and as they fall asleep, sharing a bed once again, it’s obvious to both that something has changed between them, irrevocably.

10 -

Patch, however, has not changed. 

When they reach the northwestern coast of Remnant, after two days of riding through the Mistrali hills, then three more past the border and across the Kingdom of Vale, they are greeted by a scenery Yang is intimately familiar with: the moorlands, flat and barren, the biting ocean wind sweeping through heather, the old forest of oaks and the sinuous path leading, at long last, to the castle of House Xiao Long, encased in the rocky earth like it’s always been there, hardy and stocky, a solid mass of stone and wood. It’s a relief to see, after so long on the road. 

“The castle’s never been taken, you know?” Yang says, not bothering to hide the pride in her voice. The two of them have dismounted after a hard day of riding in order to give Amber, who isn’t used to carrying two people on her back, some well-deserved respite. “Oft under siege, but never defeated.”

“Yes, you’ve mentioned this quite a few times,” Blake replies, rolling her eyes fondly.

“Oh, I’m sorry, am I boring you with tales of my family’s land?”

“Not at all. It’s only that if you keep rambling like an old crone, I’m afraid you might put your valiant steed to sleep, and then we would have to carry the supplies _and_ the horse to the castle, which would make for a rather undignified arrival, don’t you agree?” Blake laughs at Yang’s outraged expression and jumps aside, narrowly escaping a chiding swat to the arm. “Careful, proud knight,” she teases, eyes alight with mirth, “to raise a hand against a member of the royal family is considered a crime of high treason where I am from.”

“I’ll take my chances. I’m sure the law of your people allows it if the royal family member in question is an insufferable brat,” Yang grumbles with playful irritation. Blake laughs again, staying prudently out of reach of any retribution, and Yang’s belly fills with delight at the sound.

They’ve spent the past five days of travel closer than ever, talking with ease, exchanging pleasantries and jokes, comfortable with each other like a pair of childhood friends, giddy and mischievous like young lovers, both unwilling to address the looming inevitability of their separation. Now, though, as they arrive at the gates of the castle, sadness settles over Yang’s shoulders like a heavy mantle, impossible to ignore.

A guard greets them at the portcullis, lowering his lance to halt their approach. When Yang takes off her helm, he straightens up, mouth open in surprise, and bows deeply, stuttering an apology. “Sir Yang, I beg pardon. We did not expect you at the castle tonight.”

“Where is Ruby? Where is everyone?”

“Lord Taiyang and your sister are out riding with the young Lady Schnee,” the guard explains.

“Weiss is here?” Yang exclaims, pleasantly surprised. She hasn’t seen her dear old friend since the Vytal Tournament, last year. She turns to Blake. “You will like her, I think.”

“Oh, Lady Weiss and I are acquainted,” Blake says, in a very neutral tone.

“Uh oh.”

Blake snorts. “Don’t worry, we aren’t sworn enemies or anything of the like. We did not spend much time together, with Atlas and Menagerie always at odds. The last I saw her, we must have been ten years old - the extent of our conversation was poorly concealed jabs at each other’s outfits.”

“That sounds like the Lady Weiss I know and love. Be careful not to insult her dress this evening, though: she’s taken to the art of the rapier, and she is much more ferocious than her small stature would let you think…”

Once inside the castle walls, a steady stream of servants insist on performing a myriad of tasks: Amber is taken care of and their supplies brought inside the house, while Yang and Blake are offered food and wine, which they decline, and a bath, which they accept with immense gratitude. When they meet again a good hour later in the great hall, they are both scrubbed clean and clad in fresh clothes - and they both stop and stare at each other, wide-eyed, twin expressions of wonder on their faces. 

Blake regains first her ability to speak. “Sir Knight… that dress… you look beautiful,” she stutters.

“Your Highness is too kind,” Yang replies distractedly. She is very fond of the dress, which she wears but on the rarest of occasions: a long gown of rich orange cloth with wide sleeves and ermine sewn at the collar, worn with a belt of soft brown leather. Her hair she’s left free, and for adornment she only wears the bone whistle around her neck. Any other time she would be smugly pleased at the overall effect, at the way Blake is gazing at her with admiration and, yes, an undercurrent of desire. But she’s entirely captivated by the sight of Blake herself, standing in the great hall of her father’s castle and looking more dashing than she ever did.

The princess did not pick any of the dresses the servants brought before her. Instead, she is wearing tight breeches, dyed a dark grey, and a white linen shirt with puffed sleeves, over which sits a close-fitting doublet of deep purple velvet embroidered with gilded roses, closed at the chest with laces.

“This suits you well,” Yang says softly. More words of praise press at her lips, but she refrains from speaking them out loud. “Would you like a tour of the grounds while we wait for my family to come back?”

Blake accepts, and so Yang shows her all of her favorite places: the vast library, where the smell of old parchment and dust and ink permeates the air; the top of the highest tower, from which they gaze upon the moors and, far away, a hint of the coastline bluffs. When Yang points out a herd of wild horses, grazing by a small pond near the castle, Blake lets out a gasp of excitement, and Yang has never heard so lovely a sound. 

They finish the tour in the armory, a large room filled with weapons on racks, on the walls, on tables: some ornamental, some rusted, some shiny and new, just out of the forge. The family crest is displayed on long tapestries hanging from the walls, and on a huge wooden shield placed atop the mantelpiece, which Blake studies with interest: it shows two golden dragons, rearing up on each side of the coat of arms, a great helm above, a blooming rose bush underneath.

“I’ve been wondering… I know this is the flame of House Xiao Long”, Blake says, eventually, pointing at the emblem in the upper left corner, a hollow golden flame painted on white. “And this one,” she adds, finger moving to the upper right corner, a white rose on black, “is the Rose familial crest, of course. What are the two emblems at the bottom?”

The lower corners contain another flame and another rose, slightly different, placed diagonally from their counterparts. “The red rose on black is for my sister, Ruby. The heart-shaped flame on white is mine.”

“I see,” Blake says. Her fingertip trails down to the full, gold flame of the lower right corner, tracing the shape of it on the painted wood, and Yang has to avert her gaze at the way Blake touches the edges of the fiery heart meant to represent her, the gesture too intimate to bear.

Instead, she picks up an old broken lance, reverently. “This is the lance Summer used in her first jousting tournament.” When Blake comes closer, looking curious, she elaborates. “She unhorsed nineteen of her opponents, and broke her lance on the twentieth. This last bout she finished on foot, with a sword, and won as well. She had just turned eighteen.”

“I have heard tales of that tournament,” Blake says, as Yang puts the lance back in its place delicately. “My parents attended. They weren’t betrothed, then, and my father wasn’t the king yet, only the heir. According to my mother, he made a show of asking for her favor, then proceeded to win every single combat in the axe bout, with her bright yellow ribbon tied around his arm, displaying her colors for all to see…” She grins. “Mother pretends she disliked the attention but she also blushes whenever he tells the story.”

“Your father would like Ruby, I think,” Yang says with a smile of her own, pointing at a small throwing axe. “That’s the first weapon she ever touched - she threw it at me and almost killed me when she was six. To this day, I’ve never seen my father so angry.” She laughs at the memory. “She’s gotten much better with her aim, thankfully.” 

While Blake observes a dagger with what looks suspiciously like old blood crusted over its handle, Yang grabs a short, curved sword from its hook on the wall. It’s a good sword, well-made and well-kept, with barely any mark of use. 

“Here, I want you to have this.”

Blake looks up, her eyes falling on the weapon and widening in surprise. “What?”

“It belonged to Raven, a long time ago, and now, I guess, to me. But I’ll never use it - I can’t fight with a shortsword to save my life,” she jokes, lightly, as she walks to Blake and presents the blade to her, flat on her palms. 

“I couldn’t…”

“Please. Think of it as a gift, from a… from a friend. Something to remember me by, when you’re ruling Menagerie and saving the world,” Yang says, tone still light, a stark contrast to the heavy ache that’s taken residence in her chest, weighting on her heart. 

Blake’s fingers hover above the grip, hesitant, her face hard to read. She takes the sword, gingerly, caressing the edge with the tip of her thumb, before rolling her wrist, testing its weight and balance. “It’s a lovely blade,” she murmurs, eyes fleeting between the sword and Yang. “I don’t know what to say…”

“You don’t have to say anything, Your Highness. It’s my pleasure.” 

From the high windows of the armory the clattering of hooves on the paved courtyard reaches their ears, interrupting the moment. Yang brightens. “They’re back!”

She hurries to the great hall, Blake in tow, and there they are: her father, with his blond curls still entangled from the ride and the ocean breeze, dressed in simple leathers and a brown cape ; her sister, in red and black, hair longer than it was the last time Yang saw her, laughing as she leaves her bow and arrow to the care of her squire, Oscar ; Weiss, her white braid swinging down her back, cheeks red from the race through the windy moors, the scar across her eye like a thin line of silver on her pale skin. 

They all notice Yang at the same time, but Ruby is faster. She barrels into Yang, arms around her waist, with a cry of surprised happiness, and Yang, though she can’t help wincing when her sore shoulder is so brutally jolted, embraces her as well with a smile. She receives a kiss on the cheek from her father, and another from Weiss, and then turns to Blake, who is standing a few feet behind them, patient and quiet while they have their family reunion. “May I present Her Royal Highness, Blake Belladonna, Princess of Menagerie?”

And while everyone is busy curtsying and exchanging the necessary compliments prescribed by etiquette, Yang, surrounded by some of the people she loves most in the world, lets herself forget her sadness for just a moment.

11-

The castle at night is silent and dark. A violent wind rattles the shutters, its cold fingers trying to force their way into the warmth. Blake shivers, despite the lit fire and the bundle of furs piled atop her body, alone in the vast bed. Yang’s father, Lord Taiyang, mindful of Blake’s rank, gave her his room for the night, in an unnecessary, though appreciated, gesture. 

The evening was festive, the food delicious, the company pleasant. Yang’s family is like her in many ways: simple and kind-hearted, full of life. Lord Taiyang presided over the feast prepared to honor their royal guest, and delighted them with stories of his youthful adventures. Yang’s sister, Ruby, asked Blake a thousand questions about Menagerie, listening to Blake’s answers with genuine excitement. Lady Weiss, whom Blake was a bit nervous to talk to given their fraught history, turned out to be an excellent conversationalist, and moreover, an unexpected political ally. Seated beside each other, they soon became engaged in a passionate discussion of the Atlesian regime and its deeply flawed rulers, the state of various trade accords across Remnant, and a possible alliance between their Houses. They would have talked politics all night if Yang hadn’t interrupted them, pouring fragrant red wine in both their cups and steering the conversation away from serious topics. Of the rest of the evening, Blake only remembers fragments: lively songs and raucous laughter, the rich smell of roast and wine, and Yang, of course, her voice, her wild hair, her smile, relaxed and carefree at last. 

Now, alone in an unfamiliar room, in an unfamiliar bed, tucked inside the strong stone walls of an ancient castle, Blake finds herself unable to sleep. It’s too quiet. She’s grown used to Yang’s presence at her side, the sound of her breathing and the warmth of her body - and she misses her, terribly.

Yearning swells inside Blake, an emptiness that demands attention, an ache growing at the pit of her stomach. She tosses and turns, trying her best to quell the need and the loneliness, to no avail. She thinks about Yang, a few doors down the hallway, alone in her own bed. The way Yang smiles at her, sometimes, like Blake is something rare and precious. The way Yang’s laughter flows, unbridled like pure water running from a mountain source. The feel of her calloused hand on Blake’s skin, the strength of her arm holding Blake by the waist when they ride together. 

Blake pushes the furs off her body, and takes to pacing the length of the room, in her nightshift, as the dam breaks open and she is flooded with feelings she’s only now acknowledging fully, feelings that have been building up for a while, feelings for Yang. Blake has never wallowed in hesitation, nor in inaction. She wants, plainly, and the bitter truth is, maybe tonight is the only night she’ll get to ask. Slowly, her nerves melt away, replaced by calm determination. Silent as a house cat, she leaves the bedroom.

The corridor is very dark, and colder still. The stone floor is like carved blocks of ice under her bare feet. She shivers as she pads to the end of the hallway, to the last room, where she knows Yang sleeps. Light shows from under the door when she reaches it. She knocks.

Yang opens the door, in a sleeveless shift, hair down, a copper candleholder in her hand. Her eyes widen at the sight of Blake standing barefoot in front of her bedchamber, so late at night. Blake gestures casually, as if to say “may I?” and, after Yang takes a step back to let her in, closes the door behind her.

“Are you well?”

“Yes,” Blake says. “Well, no. I mean, yes, everything is fine, but I need to talk to you.”

She strides to the fireplace, putting her hands close to the flames, letting their warmth stir her courage.

“I’m all ears,” Yang says, behind her. She still sounds a little puzzled, but there’s something else underneath. Hope maybe, or the kind of excitement one attempts to hide, from fear of being disappointed. 

Blake takes a breath, and turns around. Yang is standing still, in the middle of the room, facing her, hands linked behind her back, posture both confident and open. She’s placed the candleholder on the bedside table, and the flickering candlelight casts moving shadows on her skin, accentuating the lines of her arms, the bunched muscles of her shoulders, the flat planes of her collarbones. 

“May I call you by your name?” Blake asks. It seems important, suddenly, to abolish any sign of distance between them, any reminder of their respective situations. “You can of course call me by mine.”

Yang considers her. “As you wish, Your High— Blake.” She pauses, and a smile breaks on her face, and she is the most beautiful woman Blake has ever seen. “Blake,” she repeats, slow and awed, as if savoring the taste of that name on her tongue.

Blake, meanwhile, is suffering from a severe case of heart palpitation. She steels herself. “I know our time together will soon end. Tomorrow morning we will ride to Vale Harbor and sail to the Menagerie coast, and, if the weather is good, we should reach Kuo Kuana the same evening. Your quest will be complete, my parents will reward you, and you will be free to take on any other task as you see fit. And I… I will stay. I will be the princess my kingdom deserves, and I will do what I need to ensure all of Remnant changes for the better.”

“Our paths may cross again, in future years,” Yang says, softly, knowingly. 

“But they might not. You’re a knight-errant, roaming the kingdoms to offer your services to those in need. I am a royal heir, and my responsibility is to my people first, as much as I care for all of Remnant.” Blake takes a breath. “We will lead very different lives, and if fate treats us well, we will get to accomplish what we have set out to do, but we may very well never see each other again, and Yang…” Her voice breaks, and she has to pause, emotion clogging her throat.

Yang takes a few steps forward until she’s right in front of Blake, close enough to touch, hands outstretched like she wants to hold her - but she stills and lets her arms fall down her sides instead. 

“We’ve only met two weeks ago. It could be argued that we barely know each other. And yet, the truth is…” Blake shrugs, and finds Yang’s eyes, and smiles, a little unsteady, but earnest, sure of herself in a way she’s rarely ever been. “I can’t imagine my life without you.”

Silence, troubled only by the crackling of burning wood in the fireplace. Yang blinks, and opens her mouth, and doesn’t move, eyes still locked onto Blake’s. She inhales sharply, the sound one makes when being kicked in the chest unexpectedly, and Blake’s own chest feels too tight.

“I won’t take offense if you… if our feelings differ,” she hurries to say, worried she’s upset Yang. “I just needed to tell you, in case…”

She stops talking abruptly - Yang is cupping her face in both hands, a smile curving the corner of her mouth. Her palms feel very warm against Blake’s cheeks. “Blake,” she whispers, smile widening as she says her name, “I feel the same way.”

Warmth spreads from the bottom of Blake’s stomach, all the way to her cheeks, and down her thighs too, engulfing her whole ; a wave of burning, staggering desire and joy that drowns the last of her restraint. She surges towards Yang, digging her fingers in Yang’s silky blond locks, and pulls Yang’s head down until she can press their mouths together in a hungry, wild, impatient kiss. Yang moans against her lips. Her hands trail down Blake’s sides to rest firmly at her hips, and Blake’s knees buckle underneath her, and she slips her tongue inside Yang’s mouth, a challenge and a promise. 

Later, as they lay together naked on the bed furs, skin sticky with sweat, holding each other while they catch their breath, Blake cups Yang’s cheek in her palm, and looking at her in the eye, she says: “Ask me to stay with you, and I’ll say yes.” And she means it, in that moment between night and day, where nothing feels real except the firmness of Yang’s thigh against her own, the way Yang’s hair tickles her neck, the taste of Yang still on her lips.

Yang brings her hand up to cover Blake’s, and moves her head slightly to the side so she can press her lips to the soft, sensitive skin of Blake’s inner wrist. Her eyes, tinged red in the candlelight, are brimming with a tender sort of heartbreak, and she says, gently:

“I can’t, and you can’t.”

12 -

The ride to Vale Harbor is a strange affair - a short trip, by all means, an hour at most, yet it feels to Yang as long as weeks. When they departed, before dawn, her father gave Blake the use of one of his favored horses, a gesture that filled Yang with pride at the time. Now, though, as she rides alongside the princess, no longer sharing a saddle, she finds herself missing the very early days of their journey, when they were traveling on foot, through the woods, lost and tired and perpetually suspicious of one another, true, but also growing entangled like vines, in the way only a common experience can bond two souls. Part of her wishes she’d enjoyed it more, this first week and the freedom inherent in being alone together in the wilderness, when she slept beside Blake every night without wondering what it could mean, and when it would end.

Now Yang knows what it means, and knows it has ended too. She’s well aware that the night they spent together was a farewell, the kind they won’t be able to have in Kuo Kuana, in the very public setting of the royal court. She doesn’t regret it - how could she, when her mind still reels from the memory of Blake’s smooth skin under her fingertips, of the sweet sting of Blake’s nails digging into her back, of the blessed, glorious sounds of Blake surrendering herself to the safe embrace of Yang’s arms - but she tries very hard not to think about it.

There is nothing to say, no delaying the inevitable, no false promises to make. Soon Yang will kneel before the king and queen of Menagerie, side by side with the princess she swore she would bring back to them, and they will have to go their separate ways. How cruel, that the fulfillment of her duty should run so opposite to what her heart desires. 

Ordinarily, Yang cherishes any occasion she has to visit Vale Harbor - a dense, noisy, feverish town she can’t help but love, clinging onto the coastline like a clutter of mussels, with its teeming covered markets, and its port filled with ships from all around the world. This particular morning, as she guides Blake through narrow streets after they’ve left their horses to the good care of a stable on the outskirts of town, she can’t even bring herself to smile, let alone wave back when people shout out their praise and love for the Flame of Remnant. So preoccupied is she, so lost in sadness and melancholy, that she doesn’t notice how eerily empty the wharf looks, for this time of day, how unnaturally quiet. They’re heading for the shack on the docks where the harbormaster works, in order to find out which ship might take them to the Menagerie coast, when Blake stops in her tracks.

“Blake?”

“We’re not alone,” she whispers in response, hand creeping towards the pommel of the shortsword Yang gave her, which she wears sheathed at the hip. All at once, Yang spots the figures surrounding them, six or so people, silent and clad in dark clothes, arrayed in a loose semi-circle so as to block any exit. She swears under her breath - it’s an ambush. They’re trapped between their assailants and the sea.

“I’ve been waiting for you.” 

The voice rings out from behind them, contemptuous. They spin around to find Adam staring them down, lips twisted in a scornful smile. He steps in the middle of the half-circle, flanked by three White Fang members on each side, all sporting various weapons. 

Blake sighs. She doesn’t draw her sword, but her fingers tighten visibly around the hilt. “Adam, let us go. We don’t have to fight.”

He sneers in disgust. “Spoken like a true cowardly noble. Is that all you have to say to your comrades in arms?” He gestures at the White Fang outlaws beside him. “Are you so dishonorable, so like the rest of your corrupt peers, that betraying the ones who’ve fought by your side for months brings you no remorse, not even a hint of shame as you run away to the safety of your little palace and its craven throne?”

“I am not the one who betrayed their trust, Adam. I am not the one who uses people’s righteous anger and pain to gain power and wealth for myself. And I am not running away, not anymore. Unlike you, I have inherited power and wealth I never wanted - a fact that I cannot change or deny. And unlike you, I mean to spend my life fighting for a fairer world which does not benefit only a privileged few.” Blake speaks with serene strength, voice steady and firm, looking him right in the eye. Pride swells in Yang’s chest, drowning out the anguish and tension of the past few days, and as she watches Blake, standing tall in front of a man who intends to hurt her, she doesn’t see the girl she loves, sweet and stubborn, insecure and a bit arrogant and so desperately struggling to be good, but the future ruler of Menagerie. It’s easy, with the way Blake holds her head high, to picture a heavy crown of gold sitting atop her dark hair, easy to listen to her words and envision her leading troops to battle, or an entire kingdom to peace and prosperity. And it’s easy, so very easy suddenly, for Yang to imagine herself at Blake’s side, serving not the princess, but a cause greater than the two of them.

“I know you are not bad people,” Blake goes on, unaware of the quiet revelation taking hold of Yang’s heart, now addressing her former allies. “I know that, like me, you’ve grown tired of the injustice of a world that allows children to starve while nobles fill their castles with gold. The White Fang was supposed to be an instrument of peace and fairness, but it fell in the wrong hands and became a tool of violence and terror. We can change that!”

“Silence!” Adam roars. Face twitching with rage, he unsheathes his longsword. “I won’t hear more of your perfidious words. You’ve made your choice, now I’ve made mine: there shall be no mercy for traitors! Your betrayal will cost you your life, and the life of everyone you hold dear.” His blue eye shifts to Yang, implacable and cold. “Starting with her.” To his companions, he shouts, as he prowls towards Yang, “Capture the princess, but don’t kill her. I want her alive, so she can watch.”

Yang draws her greatsword, straps the shield on her left arm, slides the visor of her great helm down ; all quick, practiced, familiar gestures. She’s not afraid, not even nervous. Arms steady, mind emptied but for the fight ahead, she doesn’t move an inch as Adam faces her, both hands on his sword, his jaw clenched tight, veins bulging at his temples. 

The other White Fang members surround Blake, but even from afar Yang can tell their enthusiasm is lacking. “I don’t want to hurt you,” Blake pleads as she draws her sword as well. They don’t appear in a hurry to hurt her either. 

Adam attacks, forcing Yang to turn her attention solely back to him. She knows how he fights, so she’s ready for the heavy arc of his strike. With a vigorous push of her shield, she forces his sword downward, then thrusts her own blade directly at his face. Adam steps back, cursing. One hand lets go of the hilt, reaches towards his belt. This time when he throws a knife at her, Yang expects it: she deflects the projectile with her shield, and advances on him, implacable. One strike to his leading leg and another to his right arm, fast as lightning, send him retreating, out of balance. He frowns, brings his sword down on her, lets out a grunt of confused, powerless rage when she shoves his blade aside. She pushes forward, crowding him. 

As she does, Yang risks a few glances towards Blake, catching glimpses of Blake parrying the halfhearted strikes of a girl with a long braid of reddish brown hair and conflicted eyes, evading sluggish hits from a huge mountain of a man. She twirls and lunges, her blade everywhere at once, blocking weapons, side-stepping any attempt at catching her. 

Meanwhile, straining and pale with effort, Adam hurls his sword at Yang’s right side, again and again, hammering down at her defense. He’s going for her wounded shoulder, she realizes, where he knows she's already hurt. The thought lights a spark of anger in Yang’s belly, but she stays calm. She focuses on her guard, meeting his repeated attacks with sword or shield but not fighting back. As predicted, he grows reckless, mistaking her restraint for weakness. One strike brings him a little too close, and __wham, Yang rams her shield into his face, breaking his nose, sending him sprawling on the ground. His sword clangs noisily as it hits the cobblestones.

All the other White Fang fighters draw back. Blake, slowly and deliberately, lowers her sword, the opposite hand raised in prayer. “Go now, before they call for the city watch!” she urges them, tone close to begging. “Please!” They look between themselves, then to Blake. The girl with the red-brown hair nods, once, before they all flee, disappearing in the dark alleyways and narrow lanes of the harbor.

“No!” Adam screams, furious, a manic gleam in his eye. 

Everything happens very fast. He picks up his discarded knife and throws himself towards Blake. Yang rushes at him from behind, heart gone wild with fear. Before he can strike, the tip of Blake’s shortsword pierces through his chest and emerges between his shoulder blades, caked with red and gore, and Yang drives her own sword into his back, and the three of them stand still. The air smells of brine and blood.

When the city guard arrives, Adam is dead, crumpled on the ground, both eyes unseeing, and Yang is holding Blake in her arms, the collar of her shirt growing wet from tears of sorrow and relief.

13 - 

They reach Kuo Kuana by nightfall. As is customary for a city that rarely sleeps, the old port is alight with a profusion of lanterns and braziers, casting cheerful colors on the nocturnal fish market and its maze of vibrant stalls, on the tall, skinny palm trees lined up on each side of the main street like silent sentinels, and on the crowd of merry sailors and shouting merchants, old men playing dice and children trading sweets, women and men dressed in classic Menagerie-style swaths of brightly colored linen talking amongst themselves, arguing over the price of oysters or the quality of ale, some laughing, others stern-faced, singing songs and declaiming poetry and discussing the weather, all of them Blake’s people. 

The familiarity of the sight, of the many smells and noises of her hometown, soothes Blake’s troubled heart the way lemongrass balm relieves nervousness: not all at once, not entirely, but enough that the improvement is noticeable. She’s happy to be home, but Adam’s death still dampens her mood, as warranted as it was, and the prospect of reuniting with her parents fills her both with exhilaration and dread. And, above it all, she can’t stop thinking about Yang. Yang, to whom she will soon bid farewell. Yang, who she never expected to trust and care for as much as she does now.

For her part, Yang is acting strangely. She spent their entire time on the ship at the prow by herself, gazing at the ocean. She’s silent, withdrawn, and it’s disorienting: Yang held Blake in her arms while she cried after their ordeal with Adam, but she’s barely acknowledged her since. At first Blake worries that Yang might be angry, or shaken by the fight. Taking a life is never easy. But Yang looks pensive more than anything. Maybe she’s simply eager to move forward, now that they’re almost at the conclusion of their journey. Maybe this distance Blake perceives is Yang letting go. Maybe she should do the same.

Blake’s chest aches at the thought. 

They meet with the captain of the harbor watch, a nervous young woman who bows deeply before Blake and organizes an escort to the palace, all the while stealing glances at Blake like she can’t quite believe the Princess of Menagerie traversed the docks on foot, in commoner garb. At this late hour, most courtiers have abandoned the palace grounds to go dine in their private houses. Blake is thankful for their absence, as it allows her to make her way to the throne room without any fuss. With its raised dais, its walls adorned with wood carvings and delicate paintings, its lustrous rugs, the throne room is exactly as magnificent as she remembers it. On the left chair, intricately decorated with carved animals and encrusted with gems, her father sits ; to his right, her mother is seated on an identical chair, and before them, standing below the steps of the raised platform, the king’s closest advisors are engaged in a serious conversation with their monarchs. No one notices Blake and Yang enter from a small door on the side, until Sienna, the Duchess of Khan Estate and Blake’s former tutor in political affairs, turns her head to the sound of footsteps on the marble floor. Her eyes meet Blake’s and widen in surprise, before she raises a hand, effectively halting the conversation.

“Your majesties, pardon the interruption, but it seems the prodigal child has returned,” she says, sharp as always, but not unkind, and suddenly everyone is looking straight at Blake. She swallows.

“Blake,” her father murmurs. His face is unreadable, but her mother gasps, bringing a trembling hand up to hide her mouth. The king turns to his advisors. “This meeting is adjourned.” 

As they file out of the throne room, Blake and Yang take their place in front of the throne, and kneel, side by side, heads bowed. Blake stares at the geometrical designs on the beautiful rug, and waits. Her throat is tight, stomach churning with nerves and fear and guilt. She hasn’t seen her parents in several months, and it dawns on her that she doesn’t know what to expect. They’ve never shown her anger - irritation or disappointment at times, when she was too rambunctious as a child, or when she used to ditch her studies to go explore the city with her friend Sun, the son of the palace gamekeeper, but nothing more. What if they are angry with her, now? What if they hate her for leaving?

Instead, Kali rushes down the few steps and falls on her knees beside Blake, embracing her. “My little girl,” she says, voice wet with unshed tears of joy and deep-seated relief. Ghira joins them on the floor, one arm around Blake, the other around his wife, a wide grin lighting his face. He kisses the top of Blake’s hair, pulling her against his chest. Despite her nineteen years of age, despite everything she’s done, everything she’s seen, it only takes her parents’ tight embrace for Blake to feel like a small child again, secure and loved.

“Are you alright? Are you hurt?” Ghira asks, pushing away a little so he can look her up and down. 

“I’m well. I’m… I’m so sorry…” 

Kali shushes her. “You’re here, and you’re safe. It’s all that matters.”

They remain locked together for several long minutes, Blake in between her parents, basking in their unconditional love, until eventually the three of them stand up. On their right, Yang is still kneeling, quiet and patient. Ghira places one hand on her shoulder. “Rise, Flame of Remnant, and know you have our eternal gratitude.”

Yang does so. “I am glad to have been of service to the Kingdom of Menagerie.” 

“We shall have a banquet in two days time,” Kali says, clasping her hands together and smiling, “to celebrate Blake’s return. I hope you will grace us with your presence, dear knight, though of course we understand if your duties call you elsewhere.”

Yang bows once more, formal, gracious. “You honor me, Your Majesty. ” Blake, whose stomach flipped hopefully at the thought of Yang staying a couple more days, winces when she hears Yang’s noncommittal, tactful response. 

“Surely you’ll accept our hospitality for the night, at least,” Ghira states, resolutely. “Is there anything you would ask of us, aside from the reward we previously discussed?”

“If you’ll pardon my temerity, Your Majesties, I have but one request.” Yang looks Blake in the eye, for the first time since they boarded the ship in Vale Harbor. The purple of her eyes is as striking as always, and Blake feels a painful tug inside her chest. “Princess, would you mind showing me the palace gardens once more?”

Oh. “Of course,” Blake hears herself reply, politely, as if from a great distance. Inside her veins, blood has turned to ice, freezing her in place. This is it, she thinks, this is farewell, for good. Yang has clearly been readying herself to say goodbye ever since they left Vale, and thus wishes for a secluded place, for some privacy, before they part ways, because she means to leave as soon as possible. And, Blake has to concede, what better setting for their final moment together than the Kuo Kuana gardens, the ones they talked about once, on a sunny hillside, while Blake took care of Yang’s wound. The scene feels like a lifetime ago, but even as nostalgia squeezes her stomach, even as pressure builds behind her eyes, Blake composes herself, willing away the paralyzing ice, straightening her shoulders. She owes Yang that much. She will be strong for her, she will not cry. 

To behold the Kuo Kuana gardens at night is a rare treat. Aromatic torches mounted on bamboo sticks line the paths, illuminating the bushes of flowers and shrubs. Above them, the darkness of the night sky is studded with bright stars, amongst which thrones the moon, a half-crescent of pale light. The air is sweet and fragrant, pleasantly warm. Silence reigns here, at the heart of the palace. They are alone, for the last time.

Quietly, Yang removes her helm, which she places atop the small wooden table set up in the middle of the gardens. She also takes off her red cloak, folding it neatly and placing it next to the helmet, and props her shield against a chair. Blake watches her, silent, avidly drinking in the sight of Yang in her childhood home, desperately hoping for more time. Yang, golden hair falling in waves down her back, closes her eyes and inhales, leisurely, stunning, amidst the flowers. As is expected of a royal princess, Blake has received a thorough education in the arts, and though she’s never excelled at it, in this moment she ardently wishes for her parchment paper and her inks ; if only she could paint Yang, and cherish this last image of her forever, the way people revere the icons of heroes and saints. 

The moment passes. Yang opens her eyes, and walks up to Blake. “I have something to tell you.”

Blake’s ribcage constricts, painfully, obstructing her lungs, crushing her heart. “Let us not speak,” she rasps, voice hoarse from emotion. “Let us sit, here, together, and not talk of things to come, please…”

A finger on her lips silences her. Yang’s face breaks into a wide, impossible smile. “Listen to me: I’m not leaving you. Whatever I feel, I know you feel it too, and neither of us wants our story to end before it has even started. You have responsibilities tying you to Menagerie, I understand, and so I’ll make them mine. I trust in your judgement, and I want a part in the work you will do, here in Menagerie, and in all of Remnant. Blake, let me help you. Let me help you do good.”

“How?” Blake’s voice trembles. Her heart quickens, blood pulsing in her throat. She feels rattled and astounded, as if she’d been unseated from her horse in a joust.

“Allow me to pledge myself to you and your cause. At least for a little while.”

“What about your life as a knight-errant?” Blake counters, searching Yang’s eyes for any hint of doubt, any sign that she is not thinking through the consequences of such a choice. She finds none, but insists, out of sheer worry for Yang. “What about your freedom? What about the life of adventures you always wanted?”

“I know I will get my fill of adventures with you, whether we are traveling the kingdoms or staying at your parents’ court. Blake, I’ve never felt freer than with you. I’ve found a purpose in you. I want to stay, if you’ll have me.”

Blinking back tears of astonished happiness, Blake nods her acquiescence, too bewildered to speak. Yang draws her sword from its scabbard and kneels in front of her. Bareheaded, solemn, she presents her sword to Blake on open palms and recites the ancient words. “Blake Belladonna, Princess of Menagerie, I become your knight from this day forward until you release me from service, and unto you shall be true and faithful.”

Blake touches the blade, then cups Yang’s cheek. She tilts Yang’s face up, towards her. “I accept your oath, Yang of House Xiao Long, the Flame of Remnant.”

Yang rises to her feet, sheathes her greatsword. They look at each other, smiling, suddenly shy, both hit by the momentous weight of what just happened.

Then Blake licks her lips and says, half teasing, half serious, “You know, traditionally when one makes an oath of fealty to one’s liege, it is sealed by a kiss on the mouth.” 

And so, with a laugh, Yang performs the very first of her knightly duties. In her gentle calloused hands, she holds Blake’s face, and she kisses her under the moonlight, surrounded by the most beautiful flowers in the whole world. To Blake’s eyes, she eclipses them all by far.


End file.
